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Book. .T\U 




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Poems 



of 



Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 



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With Biographical Sketch 

BY 

NATHAN HASKELL DOLE 



NEW YORK 

THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO. 

PUBLISHERS 



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THE UBfA^y OF 
Two Copies ftEcit<«cf 

DEC. 24 1901 

CLASS O-XXc NO 



/ 7 ^ 



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Copyright, 1893 and 1901, 
By THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO. 



CONTENTS. 



Page 
Voices of the Night, 1839: — 

Prelude I 

Hymn to the Night . , . . 2 

A Psalm of Life 3 

The Reaper and the Flowers . 3 

The Light of Stars .... 4 

Footsteps of Angels .... 42 

Flowers . 5 

The Beleaguered City .... 6 
Midnight Mass for the Dying 

Year 7 

Earlier Poems. 

An April Day 8 

Autumn . 8 

Woods in Winter 9 

Hymn of the Moravian Nuns 
of Bethlehem at the Conse- 
cration of Pulaski's Banner . 10 
Sunrise on the Hills .... 10 
The Spirit of Poetry . . <. . ii 
Burial of the Minnisink ... 12 
Translations, 
Coplas de Manrique .... 13 
The Good Shepherd .... 20 

To-morrow 20 

The Native Land 21 

The Image of God 21 

- The Brook 21 

The Celestial Pilot 22 

The Terrestrial Paradise ... 23 

Beatrice 23 

Spring 24 

The Child Asleep 25 

The Grave 25 

King Christian 26 



Page 

The Happiest Land .... 27 

The Wave 27 

The Dead 27 

The Bird and the Ship ... 27 

Whither? 28 

Beware ! 28 

Song of the Bell 29 

The Castle by the Sea ... 29 

The Black Knight 30 

Song of the Silent Land. . . 31 

L'Envoi 31 

Ballads and Other Poems, 
1841: — 

Preface 31 

The Skeleton in Armor ... 36 

The Wreck of the Hesperus . 38 

The Luck of Edenhall ... 40 

The Elected Knight .... 40 

The Children of the Lord's 

Supper 42 

Miscella neo us. 

The Village Blacksmith ... 50 

Endymion 50 

The Two Locks of Hair ... 51 

\ It is not always May .... 51 

The Rainy Day 52 

God's-Acre 52 

To the River Charles .... 52 

Blind Bartimeus 53 

The Goblet of Life .... 53 

Maidenhood 54 

Excelsior • • 55 

Poems on Slavery, 1842: — 

To William E. Channing . . 56 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

The Slave's Dream .... 56 

The Good Part 57 

The Slave in the Dismal 

Swamp 57 

The Slave singing at Midnight 58 

The Witnesses 58 

The Quadroon Girl .... 58 

The Warning 59 

The Spanish Student, 1843 • • 60 

The Belfry of Bruges and 
Other Poems, 1846: — 

Carillon 99 

The Belfry of Bruges ... 100 
Miscella neous. 

A Gleam of Sunshine . . . loi 

The Arsenal at Springfield . 102 

Nuremberg 103 

The Norman Baron .... 104 

Rain in Summer 105 

To a Child 106 

The Occultation of Orion . . 109 

The Bridge no 

To the Driving Cloud . . . no 

S07tgS. 

^ Seaweed in 

^he Day is Done 112 

Afternoon in February . . . 113 

To an Old Danish Song-book 113 

Walter von der Vogelweide . 114 

Drinking Song 1 15 

The Old Clock on the Stairs . 115 

The Arrow and the Song . . 116 

Sonnets. 

The Evening Star . ... . 117 

Autumn 117 

Dante 117 

Translations. 

The Hemlock Tree . . . . 118 

Annie of Tharaw 118 

The Statue over the Cathedral 

Door 119 

The Legend of the Crossbill . 119 

The Sea hath its Pearls . . 119 

Poetic Aphorisms .... 120 

Curfew 121 



Page 

The Seaside and the Fireside, 
1850. 

Dedication 121 

By the Seaside. 

The Building of the Ship . . 122 

The Evening Star .... 127 

The Secret of the Sea . . . 128 

Twilight 128 

Sir Humphrey Gilbert . . . 129 

The Lighthouse 129 

The P ire of Drift-wood . . . 130 

By the Fireside. 

Resignation 131 

The Builders 132 

Sand of the Desert in an Hour- 
glass 133 

Birds of Passage 134 

The Open V/indow .... 134 

King W^itlaf 's Drinking-horn. 134 

Caspar Becerra 135 

Pegasus in Pound .... 135 

Tegner's Drapa 136 

Sonnet 137 

The Singers 137 

Suspiria 138 

Hymn 138 

The Blind Girl of Castel- 

CuiLLE 139 

A Christmas Carol .... 145 

Birds of Passage, 1858: — 

Prometheus 146 

The Ladder of St. Augustine . 147 

The Phantom Ship .... 148 
The Warden of the Cinque 

Ports 149 

Haunted Houses 149 

In the Churchyard at Cam- 
bridge 150 

The Emperor's Bird's-nest . 151 

The Two Angels 151 

Daylight and Moonlight . . 152 
The Jewish Cemetery at New- 
port 153 

Oliver Basselin 154 

Victor Galbraith . . . . . 155 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

My Lost Youth 156 

The Ropewalk 157 

The Golden Mile-stone . . . 158 

Catawba Wine 159 

Santa Filomena 160 

The Discoverer of the North 

Cape 160 

Daybreak 162 

The Fiftieth Birthday of Agas- 

siz 162 

Children 163 

Sandalphon 163 

Epimetheus 164 



J Page 

Evangeline 165 

The Golden Legend, 1851: — 

Prologue 196 

The Nativity 225 

Epilogue 265 

The Song of Hiawatha, 1855 . 266 : 

Vocabulary 328 

The Courtship of Miles Stand- 

ISH, 1858 330 

Notes 353 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 



Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was born on the 27th of February, 1807, in 
Portland, Maine. 

His father, Stephen Longfellow, a graduate of Harvard College in the class with 
Dr, Channing, Judge Story, and other distinguished men, practised his profession 
of the Law at the Cumberland bar, where he soon won a prominent position. He 
also took an active part in politics, and was sent as a representative to the Massachu- 
setts Legislature, and after the separation represented his State in Congress. 

He married Zilpah Wadsworth, the beautiful daughter of General Peleg Wads- 
worth, of a family which traced its ancestry back to John Alden and Priscilla Mullins. 

Henry Wadsworth was named after his maternal uncle, a lieutenant in the navy, 
who had perished in the fireship Intrepid before Tripoli in 1804. He was second 
in a family of four sons and four daughters. Their father, says Samuel Longfellow, 
" was at once kind and strict, bringing up his children in habits of respect and obe- 
dience, of unselfishness, the dread of debt, and the faithful performance of duty." 
According to the same authority, the mother was fond of poetry and music, a lover 
of Nature, cheerful even under the trials of chronic invalidism, full of piety, kind to 
her neighbors, the devoted friend and confidante of her children. 

Henry was a lively, active boy, impetuous and quick-tempered, but affectionate 
and placable, sensitive and impressionable. He was fond of singing and dancing, 
but greatly disliked loud noise and excitement. He was remarkably neat and orderly, 
" solicitous always to do right," industrious and persevering. 

He began to go to school when he was three years old. Before he was seven he 
had studied halfway through the Latin grammar. One of his teachers at the Portland 
Academy was the famous Jacob Abbott. 

At home his father's library gave his hunger for literature sufficient of the best 
food : Shakespeare, Milton, Pope, Dryden, Goldsmith, the best poets, essayists, and 
historians, the "Arabian Nights," " Don Quixote," and Ossian. 

The first book to fascinate his imagination was Washington Irving's " Sketch 
Book." He was a schoolboy of twelve when the first number came out ; and he 
long 'terwards declared that he read it " with ever increasing wonder and delight, 
spellbound by its pleasant humor, its melancholy tenderness, its atmosphere of revery, 
— nay, even by its gray-brown covers, the shaded letters of its titles, and the fair, 
clear type, which seemed an outward symbol of its style." 



HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 



Not less poetically nurturing must have been the situation of the old Wadsworth 
mansion, then on the outskirts of the town, from whose upper windows on the one 
side Mt. Washington was plainly visible, seventy miles away, and on the other the 
beautiful bay with its unnumbered islands, the majestic bluff of White Head, the 
frowning walls of Fort Preble, and the lighthouse on the cape. 

His holidays were usually spent on the farm of his grandfather, Judge Longfellow, 
about three miles from Gorham Corner. His uncle and aunt Stephenson and their 
children lived on the adjoining farm, and gave him pleasant companionship. Some- 
times he visited his grandfather Wadsworth, who lived on his estate of seven thou- 
sand acres in Hiram, between the Saco and Ossipee rivers. Both of his grandfathers 
dressed in the old-time style of small-clothes and club-tied hair. General Wadsworth, 
years before, had even indulged in writing satirical verses. He was a capital story- 
teller, and had a great fund of personal reminiscences of his Harvard and army days, 
his capture by the British, and his escape from the fort at Castine. All these things 
had their effect upon an impressionable mind. 

One November day in 1820, the boy, with fear and trembling, shpped a manu- 
script poem into the letter-box of the Portland Gazette. When the semi-weekly next 
appeared, his verses, signed " Henry," were printed in the " Poet's Corner." They 
were in commemoration of a fight with the Indians at a pond not far from Hiram : — 

THE BATTLE OF LOVELL'S POND. 

Cold, cold is the north-wind, and rude is the blast, 
That sweeps hke a hurricane loudly and fast. 
As it moans through the tall, waving pines lone and drear, 
Sighs a requiem sad o'er the warrior's bier. 

The warwhoop is still, and the savage's yell 

Has sunk into silence along the wild dell. 

The din of the battle, the tumult is o'er. 

And the war-clarion's voice is now heard no more. 

The warriors that fought for their country, and bled, 
Have sunk to their rest; the damp earth is their bed; 
No stone tells the place where their ashes repose. 
Nor points out the spot from the graves of their foes. 

They died in their glory, surrounded by fame. 
And Victory's loud trump their death did proclaim. 
They are dead; but they live in each Patriot's breast, 
And their names are engraven on honor's bright crest. 

Stiff, unmetrical, stilted, unoriginal as these lines were, they gave the boy and the 
sister, whowas alone in the secret, unalloyed satisfaction. But soon criticism came 
to turn joy to tears. Judge Mellen, a neighbor, happened, in the poet's hearing, to 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 



condemn them. He escaped from under the whip as speedily as possible, but was 
not discouraged. Other pieces from his pen appeared from time to time in the 
Gazette. He also wrote a poetic "Address" for the newspaper carrier's annual 
presentation. 

Before he was fifteen he successfully passed the Bowdoin College entrance exam- 
inations, but did not reside at Brunswick till the beginning of his sophomore year. 
When he and his brother went up together, they lodged in the village, in the house 
where afterwards " Uncle Tom's Cabin " was written. The only ornament of their 
uncarpeted room was a set of card racks painted by their sister. They complained 
of the difficulty of keeping themselves warm; and their mother wrote that she was 
afraid learning would not flourish or their ideas properly expand in a frosty atmos- 
phere, and, she added, " I fear the Muses will not visit you." 

In those days he was described as slight and erect in figure, with a light, delicate 
complexion like a maiden's, a slight bloom upon his cheeks, " his nose rather promi- 
'nent, his eyes clear and blue, and his well-formed head covered with a profusion 
'of brown hair waving loosely." The class to which he belonged had several memo- 
rable names, not the least distinguished of which was that of Hawthorne. Longfel- 
low held high rank. He was regular and studious in his habits, though he cared 
niore about general reading than the special curriculum. It is interesting to find 
him at that early day taking the side of the Indians against the prejudices that have 
always followed " that reviled and persecuted race." He was greatly delighted with 
Gray's poems, and regarded Dr. Johnson's criticisms upon them as unjust. In the 
winter vacation of 1823 he had some thought of teaching a school, but was on the 
whole glad that he had failed to obtain one. His chief exercise was walking. When 
the snow was deep he cut wood, though he found it rather irksome. As a makeshift 
for either, he wrote his father : " I have marked out an image upon my closet door 
about my own size; and whenever I feel the want of exercise I strip off my coat, 
and, considering this image as in a posture of defence, make my motions as though 
in actual combat. This is a very classick amusement, and I have already become 
quite skilful as a pugilist." 

In February, 1824, he made his first visit to Boston, saw all the sights, except the 
Mill-dam, attended a ball at the house of the beautiful and talented Miss Emily 
Marshall, enjoyed the Shakespeare Jubilee, and found himself " much pleased with 
the city itself as well as with the inhabitants." 

The most of his vacations, however, he spent at his Portland home. When the 
College course came to an end, he found himself number four in his class. " How 
I came to get so high, is rather a mystery to me," he wrote, " inasmuch as I have 
never been a remarkably hard student, touching college studies, except during my 
sophomore year, when I used to think that I was studying pretty hard." He chose 
for his commencement part an oration on the " Life and Writings of Chatterton," 
but his father thought that so few of his audience had ever heard of Chatterton he 
would better take a more popular subject. He accordingly took for his theme " Our 
Native Writers." 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 



During all his stay at Brunswick he continued to write poetry. Two stanzas of a 
poem " to lanthe " are considered by his brother Samuel as alone worthy of preser- 
vation from the work of his first year : — 

When upon the western cloud 

Hang day's fading roses, 
When the linnet sings aloud 

And the twilight closes, — 
As I mark the moss-grown spring 

By the twisted holly. 
Pensive thoughts of thee shall bring 

Love's own melancholy. 

Then when tranquil evening throws 

Twilight shades above thee. 
And when early morning glows, — 

Think on those that love thee ! 
For an interval of years 

We ere long must sever, 
But the hearts that love endears 

Shall be parted never. 

These early poems, like much imitative verse, bore the impress of deep-settled 
melancholy. One of his correspondents wrote him that it was an enigma how one 
so cheerful and laughter-loving should write in such strains. In the fifteenth number 
of the United States Gazette, a fortnightly which had been started in April, 1824, 
edited by Theophilus Parsons, appeared a poem entitled " Thanksgiving," and signed 
" H. W. L." During the following year Longfellow contributed sixteen others, five 
of which were reprinted in " Voices of the Night." He also contributed to the 
Gazette three prose sketches, which showed the influence of Irving, as the poems 
showed that of Bryant. Several poems were also incorporated in them, and one of 
these was afterwards reprinted with his name : — 

THE ANGLER'S SONG. 

From the river's plashy bank 

Where the sedge grows green and rank 

And the twisted woodbine springs, 
Upward speeds the morning lark 
To its silver cloud — and hark ! 

On his way the woodman sings. 

Where the embracing ivy holds 
Close the hoar elm in its folds 
In the meadow's fenny land, 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 



And the winding river sweeps 
Thro' its shallows and still deeps, 
Silent with my rod I stand. 

But when sultry suns are high 
Underneath the oak I lie, 

As it shades the water's edge; 
And I mark my line away 
In the wheeling eddy play 

Tangling with the river sedge. 

When the eye of evening looks 

On green woods and winding brooks. 

And the wind sighs o'er the lea, — 
Woods and streams I leave you then, 
While the shadows in the glen 

Lengthen by the greenwood tree. 

So far we find not a ray of originality, nor one of those graceful, if not always accu- 
rate, comparisons or metaphors which peculiarly mark Longfellow's fancy. The Yankee 
" woodman " is not a singing being, nor have we " larks " under New England skies. 
It is interesting to know that the Gazette then paid its contributors a dollar a column 
for prose, and got its poetry for nothing. The editor regarded Longfellow's, how- 
ever, as so full of promise — and any flower in the desert has a smiling aspect — that 
he proposed that the poet should receive some compensation for regular contribu- 
tions. This, small as it was, seems to have been enough to excite Longfellow's 
ambition toward a literary career. He brought up objections against the profession 
of a physician — there were quite enough in the world without him! In another 
letter to his father he said, " I hardly think Nature designed me for the bar, or 
the pulpit, or the dissecting-room"; and again, "I cannot make a lawyer of any 
eminence, because I have not a talent for argument; I am not good enough for 
a minister; and as to Physic, I utterly and absolutely detest it." 

Literature beckoned more enticingly: "The fact is, I most eagerly aspire after 
future eminence in literature; my whole soul burns most ardently for it, and every 
earthly thought centres in it. There may be something visionary in this, but I flatter 
myself that I have prudence enough to keep my enthusiasm from defeating its own 
object by too great haste. Surely, there never was a better opportunity offered for 
the exertion of literary talent in our own country than is now offered." 

His wise father replied with words that are as applicable to-day as they were 
almost seventy years ago : — 

"A literary life, to one who has the means of support, must be very pleasant. 
But there is not wealth enough in this country to afford encouragement and patron- 
age to merely literary men. And as you have not had the fortune (I will not say 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 



whether good or ill) to be born rich, you must adopt a profession which will afford 
you subsistence as well as reputation. I am happy to observe that my ambition has 
never been to accumulate wealth for my children, but to cultivate their minds in the 
best possible manner, and to imbue them with correct moral, political, and religious 
principles, — believing that a person thus educated will, with proper diligence, be 
certain of attaining all the wealth which is necessary to happiness." 

His father, while believing that it would be best for him to adopt the profession 
of the law, readily acceded to his desire to spend a year at Cambridge in the pursuit 
of general literature, and particularly of the modern languages. 

1 he Cambridge plan was suddenly supplanted by another, which led directly in 
the path of his ambition. The trustees of Bowdoin College, having already a foun- 
dation of a thousand dollars given by Madam Bowdoin, determined to establish a 
Professorship of Modern Languages. One of the Board is said to have been so much 
struck by Longfellow's translation of an ode of Horace, that he presented the poet's 
name for the new chair. It was informally proposed that he should visit Europe to 
lit himself for the position which on his return would be awaiting him. 

Until the suitable time for the voyage, he desultorily read law in his father's office, 
and thus spent the fall and winter of 1825-6. During this period he wrote the 
" Burial of the Minnisink," and several other poems for the Gazette and the Atlantic 
Souvenir. The last poem published in the Gazette was a song: — 

Where from the eye of day, 

The dark and silent river 
Pursues thro' tangled woods a way 

O'er which the tall trees quiver, 

The silver mist that breaks 

From out that woodland cover, 
Betrays the hidden path it takes. 

And hangs the current over. 

So oft the thoughts that burst 

From hidden streams of feeling, 
Like silent streams unseen at first 

From our cold hearts are stealing; 

But soon the clouds that veil 

The eye of Love when glowing, 
Betray the long unwhispered tale 

Of thoughts in darkness flowing. 

Commonplace and prosy as these lines are, they yet have that homely simplicity 
which made Longfellow's poems go straight to the popular heart. 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 



Towards the last of April he left his home for New York, where he was to take 
the packet for Europe. The journey was at that time slow and tedious; by stage to 
Boston, thence through Northampton to Albany, and down the Hudson. Both at 
Boston and at Northampton he made stops, and was given letters of introduction to 
persons abroad. While waiting for the sailing of the Cadmus, he made a short 
visit to Philadelphia, which he found not half so pleasant as New York. It was 
during this visit, says his biographer, that strolling through the streets of the city 
one morning, he came upon the pleasant enclosure of the Pennsylvania Hospital on 
Spruce Street. He remembered the picture when he came to write " Evangeline." 

After an uneventful voyage of thirty days, Longfellow was landed at Havre, which 
delighted him with its quaintness and oddity. He saw his first cathedral at Rouen, 
and reached Paris on the nineteenth of June. He travelled by diligence, and found 
even " the French dust more palatable than that at home." The city at that day 
was not the splendidly paved, bright and cheerful Queen of cities that it is to-day. 
Longfellow found it a gloomy place, " built all of yellow stone, streaked and defaced 
with smoke and dust, streets narrow and full of black mud which comes up through 
the pavement ... no sidewalks; cabriolets, fiacres, and carriages of all kinds 
driving close to the houses, and spattering or running down whole ranks of foot- 
passengers, and noise and stench enough to drive a man mad." He liked the public 
gardens and the boulevards, and soon found himself " settled down into something 
between a Frenchman and a New Englander, — within all Jonathan, but outwardly 
a little of a Parlez-vousr 

Nevertheless, he was greatly disappointed in finding his advantages in the acquire- 
ment of French less than he had expected, and in making comparatively slow 
progress. There was too much temptation to speak English. Most of the people 
to whom he had letters were absent from town : lectures would not begin till Novem- 
ber. Taking advantage of this excuse, he set out on a pedestrian tour through 
central France. Like Goldsmith he carried his flute in his knapsack, but was quite 
disillusionized to find that the peasantry had degenerated since Goldsmith's day. He 
wanted to get into one of the cottages to study character, and determined, if pos- 
sible, to get an invitation. Falling in with a party of peasants, he addressed a girl 
who happened to be walking by his side, told her he had a flute, and asked her if 
she would like to dance. She replied that she liked to dance, but did not know 
what a flute was. He returned to Paris, and stayed there till the twenty-first of 
February. Then he set out for Spain, feeling comparatively satisfied with his knowl- 
edge of French, but without sorrow at leaving France. His journey to Madrid was 
uneventful: he was not even robbed, though the country was infested with hordes 
of banditti. At Madrid he found Alexander Everett and his family, Washington 
Irving, then engaged in writing his " Columbus," and one or two other Americans. 
He took lodgings at a pleasant house in the family of an elderly gentleman, his wife 
and daughter, a young lady of eighteen, who quickly became quite a sister to him, 
and made his acquisition of Spanish "a dehghtful task." 

In September, 1827, Longfellow started for Italy, taking thirteen days to go to 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 



Seville, with which " Paris of the South " he was disappointed. The Gaudalquivir 
reminded him of the Delaware, though more majestic, and flowing through infinitely 
more fertile banks. He spent nearly a fortnight in Cadiz, and then travelled to 
Gibraltar on horseback, through a wild and uncultivated region. From there he 
went by sea to Malaga, where he spent a week; then he visited the romantic region 
of the Moors, spending five days at Granada. In those five days he declared " he 
lived almost a century." 

These eight months in Spain were among the happiest and most romantic of his 
life, and he never cared to go to Spain again lest the illusion should be destroyed. 

At Florence he found the so-called " glassy Arno " " a stream of muddy water, 
almost entirely dry in summer," while the other stock accessories of Italian romance 
— "boatmen and convent bells and white-robed nuns and midnight song" — were 
less agreeable in reality than in imagination. But he enjoyed excellent society 
there, and princesses played "Yankee Doodle" for him and gave him breakfasts. 
He was disappointed in the Tuscan pronunciation, and stayed only a month. In 
February he entered Rome, but in spite of all the gayeties of the Carnival he pur- 
sued his studies. At first he intended to cut short his visit to Rome, but, delayed by 
the failure to receive a remittance, he caught the Roman fever, and was seriously 
ill. The result was that he spent a little more than a year in Italy. While still in 
Rome he received word that the anticipated appointment as Professor of Modern 
Languages had been refused him on the score of his youth. The disappointment 
was all the more cruel because he felt that he had honestly earned the place. He 
had become so conversant with French and Spanish as to speak them correctly and 
write them with the ease and fluency of his native tongue. Portuguese he read 
with ease, and at the Italian hotels he was frequently taken for an Italian. 

Longfellow spent a month in Dresden; but social advantages and amusements 
prevented more serious studies, and as his friend Preble was at Gottingen, he deter- 
mined to go there and study during as much of a year as possible. In the spring of 
1829 he ran over to England, spent a few days in London, and returned through 
Holland. The Rhine he thought a noble river, but " not so fine as the Hudson." 
The old castle of Vautsberg, near Bingen, especially delighted him, and here he 
afterwards located some of the scenes of the " Golden Legend." 

He thought the advantages for a student very great at Gottingen, but he was 
reluctantly obliged to cut short his stay, and after a few days spent in Paris, London, 
Oxford, and other English towns, he sailed from Liverpool, and reached New York 
on August II, 1829. 

Soon after his return he was appointed to the professorship at Bowdoin, at a 
salary of ^800, which was enlarged to ^900 by the additional office of librarian. He 
immediately took up his duties, and filled them to general satisfaction. He trans- 
lated a French grammar and prepared several other text-books. His first recitation 
took place before breakfast, at six in the morning. At eleven he listened to the 
juniors in Spanish. His library duties occupied the noon hour, and the last recita- 
tion of the day came at five. He also, during his second year, prepared a course of 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 



lectures on French, Spanish, and Italian literature. Poetry was for the present in 
abeyance; but he soon began to contribute to the North American Reviezv, then 
edited by Alexander Everett. In the course of the next ten years nearly a dozen 
articles on various literary subjects connected with his studies appeared. Most of 
them were illustrated with metrical translations from various languages. It is safe 
to say that few poets ever excelled him in this difficult art. 

In September, 1831, Longfellow was married to Mary Storer Potter, second 
daughter of Judge Barrett Potter of Portland. She was a beautiful young woman, 
and their marriage was very happy. Just a year later he delivered the poem for the 
Bowdoin Chapter of the $. B. K. Society, and was asked to repeat it at Cambridge. 
This was his first original poem in eight years. His first book was the " Coplas of 
Don Jorge Manrique," preceded by an essay on the Moral and Devotional Poetry 
of Spain, and supplemented by half a dozen sonnets from the Spanish. 

He also published parts of " Outre-Mer " in pamphlet form. After he had been 
in Brunswick three years he began to yearn for wider fields. Several openings were 
suggested which brought no result. But early in December, 1834, he was offered 
the Smith Professorship of Modern Languages at Harvard, with a salary of ^I5CX) a 
year, and the privilege of residing in Europe for a year or eighteen months for more 
perfect preparation in German. He accepted this " good fortune," as he called it, 
and in April, 1835, sailed with his wife for Europe. In England he enjoyed friendly 
acquaintances with Sir John Bowring, the Lockharts, the Carlyles, and others; in 
Sweden he studied the language, which he found " soft and musical, with an accent 
like Lowland Scotch." He also took lessons in Finnish, and laid the foundation for 
his acquaintance with the great Finnish epic, the " Kalevala," the rhythm and style 
of which he afterwards copied in " Hiawatha." The results of his stay in Stockholm 
are seen in his beautiful translations from Bishop Tegner. 

In Copenhagen he took lessons in Danish, and was made a member of the Royal 
Society of Northern Antiquities. During a month's enforced stay in Amsterdam he 
studied Dutch, which he found " in sound the most disagreeable " he remembered 
having heard except the Russian. His wife was in failing health : she died on the 
twenty-ninth of November, 1835. Longfellow travelled sadly to Heidelberg, where 
he found charming companionship, and, as he says of the hero of "Hyperion," 
"buried himself in books, in old dusty books." While here his brother-in-law and 
friend, George W. Pierce, died. 

He the young and strong who cherished 

Noble longings for the strife, — 
By the roadside fell and perished, 

Weary with the march of life. 

In these sorrows his " higher and nobler motive of action," which enabled him 
for the moment to forget what he called " the tooth of the destroyer," was, as he 
wrote to his friend Greene, "the love of what is intellectual and beautiful; the love 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 



of literature; the love of high converse with the minds of the great and good." 
During this time he translated Salis's " Song of the Silent Land." 

At the end of the following June, Longfellow left the nightingales of the Neckar 
and made a pleasant tour through Switzerland. Many of his experiences he wove 
into " Hyperion," which shows also the influence of Richter. His philosophy after 
all was not able wholly to take to heart the inscription to the " high-noble-born 
Herr Tinzen Kayetan von Sonnenburg " : — 

"Look not mournfully into the past; it comes not back again; wisely improve 
the present, it is thine; go forth to meet the shadowy Future without fear and with 
a manly heart." He wrote in his note-book, " Oh, what a solitary, lonely being I 
am ! Every hour my heart aches." Chillon he found the most delightful prison he 
was ever in, and thought Byron's description overcharged. The Alps he charac- 
teristically called " great apostles of nature, whose sermons are avalanches and 
whose voice is that of one crying in the wilderness." 

From Geneva he went with the Motleys of Boston to Interlaken, where they 
found the Appletons established. This was a memorable period, fraught with 
weighty consequences. The young ladies of the family were very beautjful and 
intellectual. He wrote in his diary : — 

" Since I have joined these two families from America, the time passes pleasantly. 
I now for the first time enjoy Switzerland." 

At Zurich, where the party went, he translated Uhland's ballad, " Hast du das 
Schloss gesehen," and wrote an impro^nptu on the exorbitant charges of the Hotel 
du Corbeau : — 

Beware of the Raven of Zurich, 

'T is a bird of omen ill ; 
A noisy and an unclean bird 
With a very, very long bill. 

In December, 1836, Longfellow took up his residence at Carr- bridge, and pre- 
pared for the duties of his professorship by laying out courses of lectures, making 
acquaintances, and getting settled. Though he was somewhat criticised for his 
fondness for colored coats, waistcoats, and cravats, he soon won many delightful 
friends. He wrote his father after his first five months of Cambridge life that he 
spent at least half his evenings in society, " it being almost impossible to avoid it." 

His first lecture did not begin till the last of May. He prepared a course of 
twelve on the various languages and literature of northern and southern Europe. 
They were a success from the beginning. 

On a beautiful summer afternoon in 1837, the young professor went to call upon 
a law-student who occupied the southeastern chamber in the Vassall or Craigie 
house, on Brattle Street. Longfellow subsequently occupied the same room and 
the one adjoining, tho' at first the eccentric Madam Craigie, thinking him a student, 
declined to take him as a lodger. She changed her mind when she learned that 
he was the author of "Outre-Mer." 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 



In this room, it is said, he composed all his poems between 1837 ^^'^ 1^45 and 
the romance of " Hyperion." The first poem was the one entitled " Flowers," the 
allusion in the first verse being suggested by the German Carove. The next was 
the " Psalm of Life," which his brother says was written one bright summer morning 
on the blank leaf of an invitation. 

Longfellow's college work consisted of one oral lecture a week throughout the 
year, two extra lectures a week on belles-lettres in the summer, and superintendence 
of the four or more subordinate instructors. The translations from Dante in the 
present volume were taken from the interleaved copy which he used for his classes, 
and which he filled with notes. 

Shortly after he wrote the " Psalm of Life " he thus described his own course of 
life : — 

"I live in a great house which looks like an Italian villa; have two large rooms 
opening into each other. They were once General Washington's chambers. I 
breakfast at seven on tea and toast, and dine at five or six, generally in Boston. In 
the evening I walk on the Common with Hillard or alone; then go back to Cambridge 
on foot. If not very late I sit an hour with Felton or Sparks. For nearly two years 
I have not studied at night save now and then. Most of the time am alone; smoke 
a good deal; wear a broad-brimmed black hat, black frock-coat, a black cane. 
Molest no one. Dine out frequently. In winter go much into Boston society. The 
last year have written a great deal, enough to make volumes. Have not read much. 
Have a number of literary plans and projects. ... I do not like this sedentary Ufe. 
I want action. I want to travel. Am too excited, too tumultuous inwardly." 

The note of discontent with his position at Cambridge thus struck was character- 
istic of his letters and diary all the time that he held it. 

"I am in despair," he wrote in October, 1846, "at the swift flight of time, and the 
utter impossibility I feel to lay hold upon anything permanent. All my hours and 
days go to perishable things. College takes half the time ; and other people with 
their interminable letters and poems and requests and demands take the rest. I have 
hardly a moment to think of my own writings, and am cheated of some of the fairest 
hours. This is the extreme of folly; and if I knew a man far off in some foreign 
land, doing as I do here, I should say he was mad." 

One of his projects was to found a literary newspaper either in Boston or New 
York, but it never materialized. Occasionally he Struck off a poem. " It would 
seem," he said, after finishing the "Reaper and the Flowers" without any effort 
of his own, " it would seem as if thoughts, like children, have their periods of gesta- 
tion, and then are born whether we will or not." 

In 1839 appeared "Hyperion," in two volumes, and a little later, in the autumn, 
the first volume of his poems " Voices of the Night." The following year he medi- 
tated an epic on the " Newport Round Tower," and the " Skeleton in Armor." The 
mountain brought forth a mouse. He was, however, at this time tormented with 
dyspepsia, which he confessed in his diary made him listless and irritable. He also 
suffered from toothache, and wrote his father that for three months he had not been 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 



free from it a clay. He also planned a history of English poetry, a volume of studies 
or sketches after the manner of " Claude Lorraine," a novel to be entitled " Count 
Cagliostro," and an epic — " The Saga of Hakon Jarl "; but none of them wa.s ever 
accomplished. 

There is an interesting entry in his diary under date December 17, 1839: "News 
of shipvv^recks horrible on the coast. Twenty bodies washed ashore near Gloucester, 
one lashed to a piece of the wreck. There is a reef called Norman's Woe, where 
many of these took place; among others the schooner Jlesperus. ... I must write a 
ballad upon this." 

About a fortnight later he writes : " I sat last evening till twelve o'clock by my 
fire, smoking, when suddenly it came into my mind to write the "Ballad of the 
Schooner Hesperus^'' which I accordingly did. Then I went to bed, but I could not 
sleep. New thoughts were running in my mind, and I got up to add them to the 
ballad. It was three by the clock. I then went to bed and fell asleep. I feel pleased 
with the ballad. It hardly cost me an effort. It did not come into my mind by lines 
but by stanzas." 

The volume of poems was a great success : in three weeks less than fifty copies 
were left from an edition of nine hundred; but the publisher of "Hyperion" failed, 
and half of the edition was seized for debts. It was generally well received by the 
critics, though it met with some tremendous attacks. Longfellow wrote that the 
feelings of the book were true, the event of the story mostly fictitious. 

While lecturing on Spanish literature the following year, the idea of "The Span- 
ish Student " occurred to him, and he immediately carried it out, though he did not 
publish it for some time. Writing to his father in October, he says : " My pen has 
not been very prolific of late; only a little poetry has trickled from it. There will 
be a kind of a ballad on a blacksmith in the next Knickerbocker, which you may 
consider if you please was a song in praise of your ancestor at Newbury." 

" Excelsior," which deserves its popularity in spite of its manifest absurdity, was 
suggested by the seal of the State of New York, which is a shield with a rising sun 
and the indefensible Latin motto. Of course the significance of the poem is its life, 
— the ideal soul, regardless of caution and prudence, unmoved by affectionate 
pleading, woman's love, or formal religion, strains for the highest goal, and, dying 
in the effort, mounts to the skies. 

Longfellow's volume of " Ballads and other Poems " was published in December, 
1841, and six months later he was on his way to Europe for the third time. He 
spent the summer at the baths of Marienbad. On his way he stopped at Bruges, 
which inspired him to write the poems on the Belfry. In his diary, under date of 
May 30, he writes : " The chimes seemed to be ringing incessantly, and the air of 
repose and antiquity was delightful. . . . O those chimes, those chimes ! how deli- 
ciously they lull one to sleep ! The little bells, with their clear liquid notes, like 
the voices of boys in a choir, and the solemn bass of the great bell tolling in, like 
the voice of a friar ! " 

While at Marienbad he partially laid out his plan for his "Christus" drama, 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 



which had occurred to him suddenly some months before, but which was not com- 
pleted till 1873. The only verse that he wrote there was a sonnet entitled "Mezzo 
Cammin." It ends irregularly with an Alexandrine line. 

Half of my life is gone, and I have let 

The years slip from me, and have not fulfilled 

The aspirations of my youth to build 
Some tower of song with lofty parapet. 
Not indolence, nor pleasure, nor the fret 

Of restless passions that would not be stilled; 

But sorrow, and a care that almost killed, 
Kept me from what I may accomplish yet; 

Tho' half-way up the hill, I see the Past 

Lying beneath me with its sounds and sights, — 

A city in the twilight dim and vast. 

With smoking roofs, soft bells and gleaming lights, — 

And hear above me on the autumnal blast 

The cataract of Death far thundering from the height. 

During a brief stay in England he visited Charles Dickens for a fortnight, and 
had a delightful time, the famous raven doing his share of the entertainment. On 
his return to America he published in a pamphlet of thirty pages, a collection of 
poems on Slavery, which he wrote in pencil, while " cribbed, cabined, and confined " 
to his berth by stormy weather on the return voyage. His views regarding slavery 
were expressed in a letter to his friend George Lunt, who had criticised the poems 
as expressive of a wrong attitude : — 

'" I believe slavery to be an unrighteous institution based on the false maxim that 
Might makes Right. 

" I have great faith in doing what is righteous, and fear no evil consequences. 

" I believe that every one has a perfect right to express his opinion on the sub- 
ject of slavery as on every other thing; that every one ought so to do, until the 
public opinion of all Christendom shall penetrate into and change the hearts of the 
Southerners on this subject. 

" I would have no other interference than what is sanctioned by law. 

" I believe that where there is a will, there is a way. When the whole country 
sincerely wishes to get rid of slaverj^, it will readily find the means. 

" Let us, therefore, do all we can to bring about this will in all gentleness and 
Christian charity. 

"And God speed the time." 

Of course such an attitude was not radical enough to suit the abolitionists; and 
Longfellow, standing as it were between the two parties, was blamed by both. Yet 
Whittier wrote to him asking him to accept a nomination to Congress on the ticket 
of the Liberty party. " Our friends think they could throw for thee one thousand 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 



more votes than for any other man." He declined, on the ground that he was not 
qualified for such a position, and moreover did not belong to that party. 

In July, 1843, Longfellow was married to Miss Frances Elizabeth Appleton, in 
whose company he had enjoyed so much when in Switzerland six years before. 
During their wedding journey they visited Mrs. Longfellow's relatives, who lived in 
" the old-fashioned country-seat " at Pittsfield, where stood " the old clock upon the 
stairs," suggesting its refrain of " Never-Forever." 

On this journey they passed through Springfield; and in company with Mr. Charles 
Sumner they visited the Arsenal, where Mrs. Longfellow remarked the resemblance 
of the gun-barrels to an organ, and suggested what mournful music Death would 
bring from them. " We grew quite warlike against war," she wrote, " and I urged 
H. to write a peace poem." He used her beautiful though not perfect comparison 
in the poem entitled "The Arsenal at Springfield," which grew out of her suggestion. 

Shortly after their return to Cambridge, Longfellow accepted a proposal to edit 
a work on the Poets and Poetry of Europe. It contained specimens from nearly 
four hundred poets, translated by various hands. Mrs. Longfellow served as her 
husband's amanuensis, as severe trouble with his eyes, requiring the aid of an oculist, 
had disabled him. The biographical sketches were mainly prepared by Cornelius 
Felton, who shared the honorarium. He also purchased the old mansion where he 
had roomed so long, and which became his home for the rest of his life. 

In the first fortnight of October, 1845, ^^ notes in his diary the completion of 
the poems "To a Child," "To an Old Danish Song-Book," "The Bridge over the 
Charles," and "The Occultation of Orion." On the thirteenth he completed the 
sonnet " Hesperus," or, as he afterwards called it, "The Evening Star" — remarked 
as being the only love poem in all Longfellow's verse. It was composed in " the 
rustic seat of the old apple tree." He also notes in his diary the difference "between 
his ideal home world of poetry and the outer, actual, tangible prose world." The 
routine of teaching galled him. " When I go out of the precincts of my study," he 
wrote, " down the village street to college, how the scaffoldings about the palace of 
song come rattling and clattering down." 

Still it may be doubted whether a state of absolute leisure would have been more 
satisfactory to him. Very likely the lark may say in his heart, " How I would fly 
if it were not for the air that clogs my wings ! " The following month Longfellow 
notes the coming into the world of his second boy and his fourth volume of poems, 
"The Belfry of Bruges." A few days later he had begun his "idyl in hexameters," 
the name of which he was in a quandary about ; " Shall it be * Gabrielle,' or ' Celes- 
tine,' or * Evangeline ' ? " 

In his diary he sets down an impromptu verse which came to him as he lay awake 
at night listening to the rain : — 

Pleasant it is to hear the sound of rattling rain upon the roof, 
Ceaselessly falling through the night from the clouds that pass so far aloof; 
Pleasant it is to hear the sound of the village clock that strikes the hour, 
Dropping its notes like drops of rain from the darksome belfry tower. 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 



Of an attack upon his poems by the novelist Simms he wrote : " I consider this 
the most original and inventive of all his fictions." A " furious onslaught " by Mar- 
garet Fuller he characterizes as "a bilious attack." Later in his diary we come 
across mention of " a delicious drive," through Brookline, by the church, and " the 
green lane," where was laid the scene of the poem " A Gleam of Sunshine," and " a 
delicious drive " through Maiden and Lynn to Marblehead, to the " Devereaux Farm, 
near the seaside," which gave rise to "The Fire of Drift-wood." 

The following year (1847) was marked by the completion and publication of 
" EvangeHne," a story which the rector of a South Boston church had vainly tried 
to induce Hawthorne to take up. Longfellow, at dinner with the two, said to Haw- 
thorne, " If you really do not want this incident for a tale, let me have it for a poem." 
It is interesting to know that he had never visited the region of Grand-Pre. The 
metre of the poem brought upon him much criticism, and the question is not yet 
settled whether the so-called classic hexameter can be naturalized in English. There 
are Unes in " Evangeline " which prove that it can, as for instance : — 

Multitudinous echoes awoke and died in the distance. 

There are others, as in all poems, which show faulty workmanship. But compare 
the song of the Mocking-bird (II. 2) with the same translated by the poet as an 
experiment into what he calls "the common rhymed English pentameter." Here 
are the two passages, and no critic could hesitate where to award the palm of 
superiority : — 

Then from the neighboring thicket the mocking-bird, wildest of singers, 

Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o'er the water, 

Shook from his little throat such floods of delirious music, 

That the whole air and the woods and the waves seemed silent to listen. 

Plaintive at first were the tones and sad; then soaring to madness 

Seemed they to follow or guide the revel of frenzied Bacchantes. 

Single notes were then heard, in sorrowful, low lamentation; 

Till, having gathered them all, he flung them abroad in derision, 

As when after a storm, a gust of wind through the tree-tops 

Shakes down the rattling rain in a crystal shower on the branches. 

Upon a spray that overhung the stream. 
The mocking-bird, awaking from his dream. 
Poured such delirious music from his throat 
That all the air seemed listening to his note. 
Plaintive at first the song began, and slow. 
It breathed of sadness, and of pain and woe; 
Then, gathering all his notes, abroad he flung 
The multitudinous music from his tongue, 
As after showers, a sudden gust again 
Upon the leaves shakes down the rattling rain. 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 



He notes in his diary some pendants to Schiller's poetic characterization of the 
classic metres : — 



In Hexameter plunges the headlong cataract downward; 
In Pentameter up whirls the eddying mist. 



In Hexameter rolls sonorous the peal of the organ; 
In Pentameter soft rises the chant of the choir. 



In Hexameter gallops delighted a beggar on horseback; 
In Pentameter whack ! tumbles he off of his steed. 



In Hexameter sings serenely a Harvard Professor; 
In Pentameter him damns censorious Poe. 

The day after this exercise he enters a little French poem which he calls the 
" Epigram of a Former Young Man on approaching his Fortieth Birthday " : — 

" Sous le firmament 
Tout n'est que chatigeftient, 

Tout passe " 
Le cantiqiie le dit, 
II est ainsi ecrit, 
II est sans contredit^ 

Tout passe. 

O douce vie humaine ! 

O temps qui nous entraine ! 

Destine e souveraine ! 
Moi qui, poete reveur, 
Ne fut jajuais friseur, 
Je frise, — O quelle horreur ! 
La quarantaine ! 

On the occasion of the completion of " The Conquest of Peru " Prescott invited 
Longfellow and a number of other authors; and some one, probably Longfellow him- 
self, declared that nothing could be more appropriate than to invite the Inkers on 
such an occasion. 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 



Occasionally Longfellow made a poetic entry in his diary. Such is the blank- 
verse description of the tides composed one day during his August vacation while at 
Portland : — 

faithful, indefatigable tides, 

That evermore upon God's errands go, — 
Now seaward bearing tidings of the land, 
Now landward bearing tidings of the sea, — 
And filling every frith and estuary, 
Each arm of the great sea, each little creek, 
Each thread and filament of water-courses. 
Full with their ministrations of delight ! 
Under the rafters of this wooden bridge, 

1 see you come and go; sometimes in haste 
To reach your journey's end, which being done 
With feet unrested ye return again 

And recommence the never-ending task : 
Patient, whatever burdens ye may bear. 
And fretted only by the impeding rocks. 

At first there was some delay in getting " Evangeline " published, but at last, 
toward the end of October, it came out, and he records that he had received " greater 
and warmer commendations than on any previous volume. The public take more 
kindly to Hexameters than I could have imagined." In six months six thousand 
copies were sold. 

In February, 1848, he chronicles this horrible pun: "What is au^oM-ogrsLphy? 
What biography ought to be." 

In October he was asked to write an ode for the occasion of the introduction of 
Cochituate water into Boston. He disliked writing occasional verses. Lowell was 
the odist. Longfellow contented himself with an epigram in his diary : — 

Cochituate water, it is said, 
Tho' introduced in pipes of lead, 

Will not prove deleterious; 
But if the stream of Helicon 
Thro' leaden pipes be made to run 

The effect is very serious. 

" Evangeline " was scarcely off his hands before he began his third prose romance, 
"Kavanagh"; but after it was finished he declared that he had never hesitated so 
much about any of his books except the first hexameters, " The Children of the Lord's 
Supper." 

It was published on the 12th of May, 1849. Mr. Emerson wrote that it seemed to 
him the best sketch which he had as yet seen in the direction of the American novel. 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 



Hawthorne called it "a most precious and rare book; as fragrant as a bunch of 
flowers, and as simple as one flower. A true picture of life moreover." 

In November he finished the last proof corrections of his "Fireside and Seaside/' 
and confided to his journal his yearning to try a loftier strain, the subhmer song, 
whose broken melodies " had for so many years breathed through his soul in the 
better hours of life." 

By October, 1850, Longfellow was so weary of the routine of his professorship that 
he seriously thought of resigning it; more than once he wrote that he was "pawing 
to get free his hinder parts." He said : " If I wish to do anything in literature it 
must be done now. Few men have written good poetry after fifty." 

"The Golden Legend" was published in 1851, and the first edition of thirty-five 
hundred copies was almost immediately exhausted. 

His time is shown by his diary to have been filled with all sorts of calls and 
demands; some of them most delightful, such as visits from notabilities, dinners with 
his fascinating circle of friends,, concerts; others not so pleasant: foreigners wishing 
places and help, requests for autographs, — one day he mentions sending off twenty- 
seven, another day seventy-six, — and hundreds of petty annoyances, the penalties of 
wealth or fame. 

On the 5th of June, 1854, he mentions his delight at the "Kalevala." A little 
more than a fortnight later he writes that he has at last hit upon a plan for a poem 
on the American Indians; the metre also immediately settled itself. At first he 
thought of calling it " Manabozho." On the 26th, having looked over Schoolcraft's 
" huge ill-digested quartos," he wrote some of the first lines of " Hiawatha." Having 
at last resigned his professorship, he had more leisure to work at it; and though he 
still had interruptions he had finished the last canto at noon of March 21, 1855. A 
few days later, pierced through with pain from what he calls the " steel arrows of the 
west wind," as he lay in bed a poem came into his mind — " A Memory of Portland, 
my Native Town, the City by the Sea." As a refrain for the poem he used two Unes 
from an old Lapland song : — 

A boy's will is the wind's will. 

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. 

The first edition of " Hiawatha " was five thousand, and this was immediately fol- 
lowed by a second of three thousand. By the end of two years it had reached a sale 
of fifty thousand. Bayard Taylor wrote congratulating him on his success in a subject 
so beset with difficulties. " It will be parodied," he wrote, " perhaps ridiculed, in 
many quarters; but it will live after the Indian race has vanished from our continent, 
and there will be no parodies then." 

Parodies are implicit compliments, and " Hiawatha " enjoyed this distinction. 

Of course he was immediately charged with having borrowed not only the metre 
but the incidents from the " Kalevala." He wrote to Sumner that the charge was 
" truly one of the greatest Hterary outrages " he had ever heard of. He added, " I 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 



can give chapter and verse for these legends. Their chief value is that they are 
Indian legends. I know the 'Kalevala' very well; and that some of its legends 
resemble the Indian stories preserved by Schoolcraft is very true. But the idea of 
making me responsible for that is too ludicrous," 

In 1856 he planned to go to Europe with friends, but unfortunately struck his 
knee getting into a carriage, and was laid up with the resulting lameness. It was 
at the same time that his dear friend Sumner was suffering from the brutal attack 
of Brooks. So he went to his Nahant house, and enjoyed the commotion of the 
sea, chafing and foaming. 

So from the bosom of darkness our days come roaring and gleaming. 
Chafe and break into foam, sink into darkness again, 
But on the shores of Time each leaves some trace of its passage. 
Though the succeeding wave washes it out from the sand. 

On the second of December, the following year, he began his Puritan pastoral, 
" The Courtship of Miles Standish," which he had before tried to throw into the 
form of a drama, but without success. The first edition consisted of ten thousand 
copies. He at first called it " Priscilla." This same year the Atlantic Monthly was 
established with Lowell, Longfellow's successor as Smith Professor, in the editorial 
chair. Many of Longfellow's most beautiful poems appeared in it. 

On the ninth of July, 1861, Mrs. Longfellow was sitting in the library with her 
two little girls, sealing up some small packages of their shorn curls. A lighted 
match fallen on the floor set her dress on fire. She died the next morning from the 
effect of the shock, and was buried three days later, on the anniversary of her mar- 
riage day. Longfellow himself was so severely burned that he was unable to be 
present at the funeral. Months afterwards, when some visitor expressed the hope 
that he might be enabled to "bear his cross" with patience, he exclaimed, '■^ Bear 
the cross, yes; but what if one is stretched upon it ! " 

Just as Bryant in his great sorrow, a similar sorrow, devoted his energies to trans- 
lating Homer, so Longfellow took up the task of translating Dante, which he had 
also begun years before. The first volume was printed in time to commemorate the 
six hundredth anniversary of Dante's birth. The King of Italy, in token of his high 
esteem, then conferred upon him the diploma and cross of the Order of Saints 
Maurizio and Lazzaro ; but Longfellow declined the honor. Writing to Sumner, he 
declared that he " did not think it appropriate for a Republican and a Protestant 
to receive a Catholic order of knighthood. It was not completed till 1866, though 
for a time he translated a canto a day. Meantime he published (in 1863) the 
"Tales of a Wayside Inn," which he at first thought to call " Sudbury Tales." The 
first edition was fifteen thousand copies. The characters represented as present at 
the Red Horse Inn were T. W. Parsons, Luigi Monti, Professor Treadwell (of Har- 
vard), Ole Bull, and Henry Ware Wales. The first three were in the habit of 
spending their summers at Sudbury, which is about twenty miles from Boston. 
Longfellow drew the subject of the tales from various sources. " The Birds of 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 



Killingworth " is supposed to be the only one of his own invention. The business 
of publishing the volume vi^as rendered distressing by the necessity of going to 
Washington to bring back his oldest son, Charles, a lieutenant of cavalry, who had 
been severely, though, it proved, not fatally, shot through both shoulders at 
Antietam. 

In February, 1868, Longfellow wrote two tragedies, one on the persecution of 
the Quakers, which he had written and printed in prose form, and the other on the 
Salem witchcraft. In May, with a large circle of family friends, he made his last 
visit to Europe. He spent some time in England, and at Eden Hall saw the famous 
goblet "still entirely unshattered" in spite of Uhland's poem which he had trans- 
lated so many years before. At Cambridge he was publicly admitted as Doctor of 
Laws, a degree which he already bore by courtesy of Harvard University. He wrote 
to Mrs. J. T. Fields, " I swooped down to Cambridge, where I had a scarlet gown 
put on me, and the students shouted ' Three cheers for the red man of the West.' " 

He was invited to spend a day with the Queen at Windsor Castle, and all Eng- 
land vied in showering attentions upon him. He wrote that he had been almost 
killed with kindness, and had seen almost everybody whom he most cared to see. 
He travelled through France, and spent the winter in Rome, where, among other 
enjoyments, he frequently heard Liszt play on his pianoforte. Returning through 
Germany and Switzerland, he stayed long enough in England to receive the degree 
of D.C.L. at Oxford, and to visit Devonshire, the Scottish Lakes, and the regions 
sacred to Burns. By the first of September, 1869, he was once more at his desk 
" under the evening lamp." 

It would occupy too much space to enumerate all the names of even the most 
celebrated of the visitors who were drawn to Craigie House by the fame of its 
occupant. On one day his diary records visits from fourteen people, thirteen of 
them Englishmen. In January, 1870, he began a second series of the "Tales of a 
Wayside Inn." In May he prepared a supplement to the " Poets and Poetry of 
Europe." In November he was writing "The Divine Tragedy," which had taken 
entire possession of him. It was published in December, 1871. "Judas Macca- 
bseus," which had occurred to him as a possible subject twenty years before, was 
written in eleven days. The next year came " Michel Angelo," completed in sixteen 
days, though constantly changed and enlarged, and left unpublished. "Aftermath," 
containing the third of the Sudbury days and a number of lyrics, came out in 1873. 
The following January he finished " The Hanging of the Crane," for which the New 
York Ledger paid him ^3000; it was afterwards included in "The Masque of Pan- 
dora." In July, 1875, occurred the fiftieth anniversary of his graduation, and he 
wrote for the occasion his " Morituri Salutamus." In 1877 he received $1000 for 
his " Keramos," the spur to which may have been given by his memory of an old 
Pottery which used to stand near Deering's Woods at Portland. 

Just before he reached his seventy-second birthday he called a friend's attention 
to the mysterious, significant part which the number eighteen had played in his life. 
" I was eighteen years old when I took my college degree; eighteen years afterward, 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 



I was married for the second time; I lived with my wife eighteen years, and it is 
eighteen years since she died. . . . And then, by way of parenthesis or epicycle, 
1 was eighteen years professor in the college here, and have published eighteen 
separate volumes of poems." 

During these last years he was engaged in preparing his "Poems of Places," 
which he called a " poetic guide-book." More than once the author of this sketch 
saw him at the University Press superintending the proofs. The last volume which 
Longfellow himself published was " Ultima Thule," which contained his verses in 
memory of Burns. His last verses were written on the fifteenth of March, 1882. 
They were touching and significant, like Tennyson's and Whittier's : — 

O Bells of San Bias, in vain 
Ye call back the past again. 

The past is dead to your prayer. 
Out of the shadow of night 
The world rolls into light; — 

It is daybreak everywhere. 

He had not been very well for some little time; in fact, not since "a strange and 
sudden seizure" which befell him in July, 1873, and which almost deprived him 
of the use of his right hand and arm. On the eighteenth of March he took a chill, 
was seized with peritonitis, and died on the afternoon of Friday, the twenty-fourth. 

In regard to his work, the words which Motley quoted in a letter to Longfellow 
in 1856 were appropriate to the last : — 

" I heard a brother poet of yours, for whom I hope you have as much regard as 
I have, say the other day that you had not only written no line which dying you 
would wish to blot, but not one which living you had not a right to be proud of." 

Pure as crystal are all his works. His life was likewise lofty and blameless, sweet 
and unselfish. The greatest tribute came to him from the spontaneous love of the 
children of his native land. Next to that the love and admiration of his friends, 
and not least the marble image which enshrines his memory in the Poets' Corner 
of Westminster Abbey. 

May this simple memorial be a single leaf contributed by the son of one of his 
Brunswick pupils, to whom also more than once he showed that unfailing courtesy 
which made his life a perpetual benediction. 

Nathan Haskell Dole. 



POEMS OF LONGFELLOW. 



VOICES OF THE NIGHT, 1839. 



IIoTj'ta, irSrvLa vi>^, 

viruoddTeipa rdv Tro\virbv<av pporCov, 

'Epe^odey tdi • fib\e /xdXe KardiTTepos 

' AyafX€fjLv6pioy iirl dbfiov • 

vwb yap aXyiiav^ virb re crv/xtpopas 



5L0LxbfJi.€d\ olxbfJ-eOa. 



— Euripides. 



PRELUDE. 

Pleasant it was, when woods were 
green, 
And winds were soft and low, 
To lie amid some sylvan scene, 
Where, the long drooping boughs 

between. 
Shadows dark and sunlight sheen 
Alternate come and go ; 

Or where the denser grove receives 

No sunlight from above. 
But the dark foliage interweaves 
In one unbroken roof of leaves. 
Underneath whose sloping eaves 

The shadows hardly move. 

Beneath some patriarchal tree 

I lay upon the ground ; 
His hoary arms uplifted he. 
And all the broad leaves over me 
Clapped their little hands in glee, 

With one continuous sound ; — 

A slumberous sound, — a sound that 
brings 

The feelings of a dream, — 
As of innumerable wings, 
As, when a bell no longer swings, 
Faint the hollow murmur rings 

O'er meadow, lake, and stream. 



And dreams of that which cannot 
die, 

Bright visions, came to me. 
As lapped in thought I used to lie, 
And gaze into the summer sky. 
Where the sailing clouds went by, 

Like ships upon the sea ; 

Dreams that the soul of youth en- 
gage 

Ere Fancy has been quelled ; 
Old legends of the monkish page, 
Traditions of the saint and sage, 
Tales that have the rime of age, 

And chronicles of Eld. 

And, loving still these quaint old 
themes, 
Even in the city's throng 
I feel the freshness of the streams. 
That, crossed by shades and sunny 

gleams. 
Water the green land of dreams, 
The holy land of song. 

Therefore, at Pentecost, which brings 
The Spring, clothed like a bride. 

When nestling buds unfold their 
wings. 

And bishop's-caps have golden rings, 

Musing upon many things, 
I sought the woodlands wide. 



PRELUDE. — HYMN TO THE NIGHT. 



The green trees whispered low and 
mild, 

It was a sound of joy ! 
They were my playmates when a child, 
And rocked me in their arms so wild ! 
Still they looked at me and smiled, 

As if I were a boy ; 

And ever whispered, mild and low, 
'' Come, be a child once more ! " 

And waved their long arms to and fro. 

And beckoned solemnly and slow ; 

O, I could not choose but go 
Into the woodlands hoar ; 

Into the blithe and breathing air, 

Into the solemn wood, 
Solemn and silent everywhere ! 
Nature with folded hands seemed 

there. 
Kneeling at her evening prayer ! 

Like one in prayer I stood. 

Before me rose an avenue 
Of tall and sombrous pines ; 

Abroad their fan-like branches grew, 

And, where the sunshine darted 
through. 

Spread a vapor soft and blue, 
In long and sloping lines. 

And, falling on my weary brain, 

Like a fast-falling shower, 
The dreams of youth came back again, 
Low lispings of the summer rain, 
Dropping on the ripened grain. 
As once upon the flower. 

Visions of childhood ! Stay, O stay ! 

Ye were so sweet and wild ! 
And distant voices seemed to say, 
*/It cannot be ! They pass away ! 
Other themes demand thy lay ; 

Thou art no more a child ! 

" The land of Song within thee lies. 
Watered by living springs ; 

The lids of Fancy^s sleepless eyes 

Are gates unto that Paradise ; 

Holy thoughts, like stars, arise, 
Its clouds are angels' wings. 



" Learn, that henceforth thy song shall 
be, 

Not mountains capped with snow, 
Nor forests sounding like the sea. 
Nor rivers flowing ceaselessly. 
Where the woodlands bend to see 

The bending heavens below. 

" There is a forest where the din 

Of iron branches sounds ! 
A mighty river roars between, 
And whosoever looks therein, 
Sees the heavens all black with sin, — 

Sees not its depths, nor bounds. 

" Athwart the swinging branches cast. 
Soft rays of sunshine pour ; 

Then comes the fearful wintry blast ; 

Our hopes, like withered leaves, fall 
fast; 

Pallid lips say, " It is past ! 
We can return no more !' 

" Look, then, into thine heart, and 
write ! 

Yes, into Life's deep stream ! 
All forms of sorrow and delight, 
All solemn Voices of the Night, 
That can soothe thee, or aff"right, — 

Be these henceforth thy theme." 



HYMN TO THE NIGHT. 

'AtTTraciT;, TpLWtaTos. 
I HEARD the trailing garments of the 
Night 
Sweep through her marble halls ! 
I saw her sable skirts all fringed with 
light 
From the celestial walls! 

I felt her presence, by its spell of might, 
Stoop o'er me from above ; 

The calm, majestic presence of the 
Night, 
As of the one I love. 

I heard the sounds of sorrow and 
delight, 
The manifold, soft chimes, 



J 



A rSALM OF LIFE.— THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. 



That fill the haunted chambers of the 
Night, 
Like some old poet's rhymes. 

From the cool cisterns of the mid- 
night air 
My spirit drank repose ; 
The fountain of perpetual peace flows 
there — 
From those deep cisterns flows. 

holy Night ! from thee I learn to 

bear 
What man has borne before ! 
Thou layest thy finger on the lips of 
Care, 
And they complain no more. 

Peace ! Peace ! Orestes-like I breathe 
this prayer ! 
Descend with broad-winged flight, 
The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, 
the most fair. 
The best-beloved Night ! 



A PSALM OF LIFE. 

WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG 
MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST. 

Tell me not, in mournful numbers, 
" Life is but an empty dream ! " 

For the soul is dead that slumbers. 
And things are not what they seem. 

Life is real ! Life is earnest ! 

And the grave is not its goal ; 
" Dust thou art, to dust returnest," 

Was not spoken of the soul. 

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 
Is our destined end or way ; 

But to act, that each to-morrow 
Find us farther than to-day. 

Art is long, and Time is fleeting, 
And our hearts, though stout and 
brave. 

Still, like muflied drums, are beating 
Funeral marches to the grave. 



In the world's broad field of battle, 

In the bivouac of Life, 
Be not like dumb, driven cattle ; 

Be a hero in the strife ! 

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant ! 

Let the dead Past bury its dead ! 
Act, — act in the living Present ! 

Heart within, and God overhead ! 

Lives of great men all remind us 
We can make our lives sublime, 

And, departing, leave behind us 
Footprints on the sands of time ; 

Footprints, that perhaps another. 
Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 
Seeing, shall take heart again. 

Let us, then, be up and doing, 
With a heart for any fate ; 

Still achieving, still pursuing, 
Learn to labor and to wait. 



THE REAPER AND THE 
FLOWERS. 

There is a Reaper whose name is 
Death, 
And, with his sickle keen, 
He reaps the bearded grain at a 
breath. 
And the flowers that grow be- 
tween. 

"Shall I have nought that is fair?" 
saith he ; 
" Have nought but the bearded 
grain ? 
Though the breath of these flowers is 
sweet to me, 
I will give them all back again." 

He gazed at the flowers with tearful 
eyes, 

He kissed their drooping leaves ; 
It was for the Lord of Paradise 

He bound them in his sheaves. 



THE LIGHT OF STARS. — FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. 



^* My Lord has need of these flowerets 
gay," 

The Reaper said, and smiled ; 
" Dear tokens of the earth are they, 

Where he was once a child. 

"They shall all bloom in fields of 
light, 

Transplanted by my care, 
And saints, upon their garments white, 

These sacred blossoms wear." 



And the mother 



tears and 



gave, 
pain, 
The flowers she most did love ; 
She knew she should find them all 
again 
In the fields of light above. 

O, not in cruelty, not in wrath. 
The Reaper came that day ; 

'T was an angel visited the green earth, 
And took the flowers away. 

h 



THE LIGHT OF STARS. 

The night is come, but not too soon ; 

And sinking silently, 
All silently, the little moon 

Drops down behind the sky. 

There is no light in earth or heaven. 
But the cold light of stars ; 

And the first watch of night is given 
To the red planet Mars. 

Is it the tender star of love? 

The star of love and dreams ? 
O no ! from that blue tent above, 

A hero's armor gleams. 

And earnest thoughts within me rise. 

When I behold afar, 
Suspended in the evening skies. 

The shield of that red star. 

O star of strength ! I see thee stand 
And smile upon my pain ; 



Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand, 
And I am strong again. 

Within my breast there is no light, 
But the cold light of stars ; 

I give the first watch of the night 
To the red planet Mars. 

The star of the unconquered will. 

He rises in my breast, 
Serene, and resolute, and still. 

And calm, and self-possessed. 

And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art, 
That readest this brief psalm, 

As one by one thy hopes depart, 
Be resolute and calm. 

O fear not in a world like this, 
And thou shalt know ere long. 

Know how sublime a thing it is 
To suffer and be strong. 



FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. 

When the hours of Day are numbered. 
And the voices of the Night 

Wake the better soul, that slumbered. 
To a holy, calm delight ; 

Ere the evening lamps are lighted, 
And, like phantoms grim and tall. 

Shadows from the fitful fire-light 
Dance upon the parlor wall ; 

Then the forms of the departed 

Enter at the open door ; 
The beloved, the true-hearted, 

Come to visit me once more ; 

He, the young and strong, who cher- 
ished 

Noble longings for the strife. 
By the road-side fell and perished. 

Weary with the march of life ! 

They, the holy ones and weakly. 
Who the cross of suff'ering bore. 



FLOWERS. 



Folded their pale hands so meekly, 
Spake with us on earth no more ! 

And with them the Being Beauteous, 
Who unto my youth was given. 

More than all things else to love me, 
And is now a saint in heaven. 

With a slow and noiseless footstep 
Comes that messenger divine, 

Takes the vacant chair beside me, 
Lays her gentle hand in mine. 

And she sits and gazes at me 

With those deep and tender eyes, 

Like the stars, so still and saint-like. 
Looking downward from the skies. 

Uttered not, yet comprehended. 
Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, 

Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, 
Breathing from her lips of air. 

O, though oft depressed and lonely, 
All my fears are laid aside. 

If I but remember only 

Such as these have lived and died ! 



FLOWERS. 

Spake full well, in language quaint 
and olden. 
One who dwelleth by the castled 
Rhine, 
When he called the flowers, so blue 
and golden. 
Stars, that in earth's firmament do 
shine. 

Stars they are, wherein we read our 
history. 
As astrologers and seers of eld ; 
Yet not wrapped about with awful 
mystery. 
Like the burning stars, which they 
beheld. 



Wondrous truths, and manifold as 
wondrous, 
God hath written in those stars 
above ; 
But not less in the bright flowerets 
under us 
Stands the revelation of his love. 

Bright and glorious is that revelation. 
Written all over this great world of 
ours ; 
Making evident our own creation. 
In these stars of earth, — these 
golden flowers. 

And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing. 
Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a 
part 
Of the self-same, universal being. 
Which is throbbing in his brain and 
heart. 

Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight 
shining. 
Blossoms flaunting in the eye of 
day. 
Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver 
lining. 
Buds that open only to decay ; 

Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous 

tissues. 

Flaunting gay ly in the golden light ; 

Large desires, with most uncertain 

issues, 

Tender wishes, blossoming at night ! 

These in flowers and men are more 

than seeming. 

Workings are they of the self-same 

powers 

Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming, 

Seeth in himself and in the flowers. 



Everywhere about us are they glowing, 
Some like stars, to tell us Spring is 
born: 



FLOWERS.— THE BELEAGUERED CITY. 



Others, their blue eyes with tears 
overflowing, 
Stand like Ruth amid the golden 
corn; 

Not alone in Spring's armorial bear- 
ing, 
And in Summer's green-emblazoned 
field. 
But in arms of brave old Autumn's 
wearing. 
In the centre of his brazen shield ; 

Not alone in meadows and green 
alleys, 
On the mountain-top, and by the 
brink 
Of sequestered pools in woodland 
valleys. 
Where the slaves of Nature stoop 
to drink ; 

Not alone in her vast dome of glory, 
Not on graves of bird and beast 
alone. 
But in old cathedrals, high and hoary. 
On the tombs of heroes, carved in 
stone ; 

In the cottage of the rudest peasant. 
In ancestral homes, whose crum- 
bling towers, 
Speaking of the Past unto the Present, 
Tell us of the ancient Games of 
Flowers ; 

In all places, then, and in all seasons. 
Flowers expand their light and soul- 
like wings, 
Teaching us, by most persuasive 
reasons. 
How akin they are to human things. 

And with childlike, credulous affection 
We behold their tender buds ex- 
pand; 
Emblems of our own great resurrec- 
tion, 
Emblems of the bright and better 
land. 



THE BELEAGUERED CITY. 

I HAVE read, in some old marvellous 
tale. 

Some legend strange and vague, 
That a midnight host. of spectres pale 

Beleaguered the walls of Prague. 

Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, 
With the wan moon overhead, 

There stood, as in an awful dream, 
The army of the dead. 

White as a sea-fog, landward bound, 
The spectral camp was seen. 

And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, 
The river flowed between. 

No other voice nor sound was there. 
No drum, nor sentry's pace ; 

The mistlike banners clasped the air, 
As clouds with clouds embrace. 

But, when the old cathedral bell 
Proclaimed the morning prayer, 

The white pavilions rose and fell 
On the alarmed air. 

Down the broad valley fast and far 

The troubled army fled ; 
Up rose the glorious morning star, 

The ghastly host was dead. 

I have read, in the marvellous heart of 
man, 
That strange and mystic scroll. 
That an army of phantoms vast and 
wan 
Beleaguer the human soul. 

Encamped beside Life's rushing 
stream. 

In Fancy's misty light, 
Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam 

Portentous through the night. 

Upon its midnight battle-ground 
The spectral camp is seen, 



J 



MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. 



And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, 
Flows the River of Life between. 

No other voice, nor sound is there, 
In the army of the grave ; 

No other challenge breaks the air, 
But the rushing of Life's wave. 

And, when the solemn and deep 
church-bell 

Entreats the soul to pray. 
The midnight phantoms feel the spell, 

The shadows sweep away. 

Down the broad Vale of Tears afar 
The spectral camp is fled ; 

Faith shineth as a morning star. 
Our ghastly fears are dead. 



MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE 
DYING YEAR. 

Yes, the Year is growing old, 
And his eye is pale and bleared ! 

Death, with frosty hand and cold, 
Plucks the old man by the beard, 
Sorely, — sorely ! 

The leaves are falling, falling. 

Solemnly and slow ; 
Caw ! caw ! the rooks are calling, 

It is a sound of woe, 
A sound of woe ! 

Through woods and mountain passes 
The winds, like anthems, roll ; 

They are chanting solemn masses. 
Singing : " Pray for this poor soul. 
Pray, — pray ! " 

And the hooded clouds, like friars. 
Tell their beads in drops of rain. 

And patter their doleful prayers ! — 
But their prayers are all in vain. 
All in vain ! 

There he stands in the foul weather, 
The foolish, fond Old Year, 



Crowned with wild flowers and with 
heather. 
Like weak, despised Lear, 
A king, — a king ! 

Then comes the summer-like day. 

Bids the old man rejoice ! 
His joy ! his last ! O, the old man 
gray, 
Loveth that ever-soft voice, 
Gentle and low. 

To the crimson woods he saith, — 

To the voice gentle and low 
Of the soft air, like a daughter's 
breath, — 
" Pray do not mock me so ! 
Do not laugh at me ! " 

And now the sweet day is dead ; 

Cold in his arms it lies ; 
No stain from its breath is spread 

Over the glassy skies. 
No mist or stain ! 

Then, too, the Old Year dieth. 
And the forests utter a moan, 

Like the voice of one who crieth 
In the wilderness alone, 
" Vex not his ghost ! " 

Then comes, with an awful roar. 
Gathering and sounding on, 

The storm-wind from Labrador, 
The wind Euroclydon, 
The storm-wind ! 

Howl ! howl ! and from the forest 
Sweep the red leaves away ! 

Would the sins that thou abhorrest, 
O Soul ! could thus decay. 
And be swept away ! 

For there shall come a mightier blast, 

There shall be a darker day ; 
And the stars, from heaven down- 
cast. 
Like red leaves be swept away I 
Kyrie, eleyson ! 
Christe, eleyson ! 



AN APRIL DAY. — AUTUMN. 



EARLIER POEMS. 



[These poems were written for the most part during my college life, and all of them 
before the age of nineteen. Some have found their way into schools, and seem to be suc- 
cessful. Others lead a vagabond and precarious existence in the corners of newspapers; 
or have changed their nanifs and run away to seek their fortunes beyond the sea. i say, 
with the Bishop of Avranches, on a similar occasion : " f cannot be displeased to see these 
children of mine which I have neglected, and almost exposed, brought from their wander- 
ings in lanes and alleys, and safely lodged, in order to go forth into the world together in a 
more decorous garb."] 



AN APRIL DAY. 

When the warm sun, that brings 
Seed-time and harvest, has returned 

again, 
'T is sweet to visit the still wood, 
where springs 
The first flower of the plain. 

I love the season well. 
When forest glades are teeming with 

bright forms, 
Nor dark and many-folded clouds 
foretell 
The coming-on of storms. 



From the earth's loosened mould 
The sapling draws its sustenance, and 

thrives ; 
Though stricken to the heart with 
winter's cold, 
The drooping tree revives. 

The softly-warbled song 
Comes from the pleasant woods, and 

colored wings 
Glance quick in the bright sun, that 
moves along 
The forest openings. 

When the bright sunset fills 
The silver woods with light, the green 

slope throws 
Its shadows in the hollows of the hills, 

And wide the upland glows. 



And, when the eve is born, 
In the blue lake the sky, o'er-reaching 

far, 
Is hollowed out, and the moon dips 
her horn. 
And twinkles many a star. 

Inverted in the tide, 
Stand the gray rocks, and trembling 

shadows throw. 
And the fair trees look over, side by 
side. 
And see themselves below. 

Sweet April ! — many a thought 
Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are 

wed ; 
Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn 
brought, 
Life's golden fruit is shed. 



AUTUMN. 

With what a glory comes and goes 

the year ! 
The buds of spring, those beautiful 

harbingers 
Of sunny skies and cloudless times, 

enjoy 
Life's newness, and earth's garniture 

spread out. 
And when the silver habit of the 

clouds 
Comes down upon the autumn sun, 

and with 



AUTUMN. — WOODS IN WINTER. 



A sober gladness the old year takes up 
His bright inheritance of golden fruits, 
A pomp and pageant fill the splendid 
scene. 

There is a beautiful spirit breathing 
now 

Its mellow richness on the clustered 
trees, 

And, from a beaker full of richest 
dyes, 

Pouring new glory on the autumn 
woods, 

And dipping in warm light the pillared 
clouds.. 

Morn on the mountain, like a summer 
bird, 

Lifts up her purple wing, and in the 
vales 

The gentle wind, a sweet and passion- 
ate wooer. 

Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up 
life 

Within the solemn woods of ash deep- 
crimsoned, 

And silv.er beech, and maple yellow- 
leaved, 

Where autumn, like a faint old man, 
sits down 

By the wayside a-weary. Through 
the trees 

The golden robin moves. The purple 
finch, 

That on wild cherry and red cedar 
feeds, 

A winter bird, comes with its plaintive 
whistle. 

And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst 
aloud 

From cottage roofs the warbling blue- 
bird sings, 

And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke, 

Sounds from the threshing-floor the 
busy flail. 

O what a glory doth this world 
put on 
For him who, with a fervent heart, 
goes forth 



Under the bright and glorious sky, 

and looks 
On duties well performed, and days 

well spent ! 
For him the wind, ay, and the yellow 

leaves 
Shall have a voice, and give him 

eloquent teachings. 
He shall so hear the solemn hymn, 

that Death 
Has lifted up for all, that he shall go 
To his long resting-place without a 

tear. 



WOODS IN WINTER. 

When winter winds are piercing chill, 
And through the hawthorn blows 
the gale, 

With solemn feet I tread the hill, 
That overbrows the lonely vale. 

O'er the bare upland, and away 

Through the long reach of desert 
woods, 
The embracing sunbeams chastely 
play, 
And gladden these deep solitudes. 

Where, twisted round the barren oak, 
The summer vine in beauty clung, 

And summer winds the stillness broke. 
The crystal icicle is hung. 

Where, from their frozen urns, mute 
springs 

Pour out the river's gradual tide. 
Shrilly the skater's iron rings, 

And voices fill the woodland side. 

Alas ! how changed from the fair 
scene. 
When birds sang out their mellow 
lay, 
And winds were soft, and woods were 
green. 
And the song ceased not with the 
day. 



HYMN. — SUNRISE ON THE HILLS. 



But still wild music is abroad, 

Pale, desert woods ! within your 
crowd ; 

And gathering winds, in hoarse accord, 
Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud. 



Chill airs and wintry winds ! my ear 
Has grown familiar with your song ; 

I hear it in the opening year, — 
I listen, and it cheers me long. 



HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN 
NUNS OF BETHLEHEM AT 
THE CONSECRATION OF 
PULASKFS BANNER. 

When the dying flame of day 
Through the chancel shot its ray, 
Far the glimmering tapers shed 
Faint light on the cowled head ; 
And the censer burning swung. 
Where, before the altar, hung 
The blood-red banner, that with prayer 
Had been consecrated there. 



And the nun's sweet hymn was heard 

the while. 
Sung low in the dim, mysterious aisle : 
" Take thy banner ! May it wave 
Proudly o'er the good and brave ; 
When the battle's distant wail 
Breaks the sabbath of our vale. 
When the clarion's music thrills 
To the hearts of these lone hills. 
When the spear in conflict shakes. 
And the strong lance shivering breaks. 



" Take thy banner ! and, beneath 
The battle-cloud's encircling wreath, 
Guard it ! — till our homes are free ! 
Guard it ! — God will prosper thee ! 
In the dark and trying hour, 
In the breaking forth of power. 
In the rush of steeds and men. 
His right hand will shield thee then. 



" Take thy banner ! But, when night 
Closes round the ghastly fight, 
If the vanquished warrior bow, 
Spare him ! — By our holy vow, 
By our prayers and many tears, 
By the mercy that endears, 
Spare him ! — he our love hath shared ! 
Spare him ! — as thou wouldst be 
spared ! 



" Take thy banner ! — and if e'er 
Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier, 
And the muffled drum should beat 
To the tread of mournful feet, 
Then this crimson flag shall be 
Martial cloak and shroud for thee." 



The warrior took that banner proud. 
And it was his martial cloak and 
shroud ! 



SUNRISE ON THE HILLS. 

I STOOD upon the hills, when heaven's 

wide arch 
Was glorious with the sun's returning 

march, 
And woods were brightened, and soft 

gales 
Went forth to kiss the sun-clad vales. 
The clouds were far beneath me ; — 

bathed in light. 
They gathered mid-way round the 

wooded height. 
And, in their fading-glory, shone 
Like hosts in battle overthrown, 
As many a pinnacle, with shifting 

glance, 
Through the gray mist thrust up its 

shattered lance, 
And rocking on the cliff was left 
The dark pine blasted, bare, and cleft. 
The veil of cloud was lifted, and below 
Glowed the rich valley, and the river's 

flow 
Was darkened by the forest's shade, 
Or glistened in the white cascade : 



J 



THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. 



Where upward, in the mellow blush 

of day, 
The noisy bittern wheeled his spiral 

way. 

I heard the distant waters dash, 
I saw the current whirl and flash, — 
And richly, by the blue lake's silver 

beach. 
The woods were bending with a silent 

reach. 
Then o'er the vale, with gentle swell, 
The music of the village bell 
Came sweetly to the echo-giving hills ; 
And the wild horn, whose voice the 

woodland fills, 
Was ringing to the merry shout. 
That faint and far the glen sent out. 
Where, answering to the sudden shot, 

thin smoke. 
Through thick-leaved branches, from 

the dingle broke. 

If thou art worn and hard beset 
With sorrows, that thou wouldst for- 
get. 
If thou wouldst read a lesson, that will 

keep 
Thy heart from fainting and thy soul 

from sleep. 
Go to the woods and hills ! — No tears 
Dim the sweet look that Nature wears. 



THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. 

There is a quiet spirit in these woods. 
That dwells where'er the gentle south 

wind blows ; 
Where, underneath the white-thorn, 

in the glade. 
The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing 

the soft air. 
The leaves above their sunny palms 

outspread. 
With what a tender and impassioned 

voice 
It fills the nice and deHcate ear of 

thought, 



When the fast-ushering star of morn- 
ing comes 

O'er-riding the gray hills with golden 
scarf ; 

Or when the cowled and dusky-san- 
daled Eve, 

In mourning weeds, from out the west- 
ern gate, 

Departs with silent pace ! That spirit 
moves 

In the green valley, where the silver 
brook. 

From its full laver, pours the white 
cascade ; 

And, babbling low amid the tangled 
woods. 

Slips down through moss-grown stones 
with endless laughter. 

And frequent, on the everlasting hills. 

Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap 
itself 

In all the dark embroidery of the 
storm, 

And shouts the stern, strong wind. 
And here, amid 

The silent majesty of these deep woods. 

Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts 
from earth, 

As to the sunshine and the pure, 
bright air 

Their tops the green trees lift. Hence 
gifted bards 

Have ever loved the calm and quiet 
shades. 

For them there was an eloquent voice 
in all 

The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden 
sun. 

The flowers, the leaves, the river on 
its way, 

Blue skies, and silver clouds, and 
gentle winds, — 

The swelling upland, where the side- 
long sun 

Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, 
goes, — 

Groves, through whose broken roof 
the sky looks in. 

Mountain, and shattered cliff, and 
sunny vale. 



BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK. 



The distant lake, fountains, — and 

mighty trees, 
In many a lazy syllable, repeating 
Their old poetic legends to the wind. 

And this is the sweet spirit, that 

doth fill 
I'he world ; and, in these wayward 

days of youth, 
My busy fancy oft embodies it. 
As a bright image of the light and 

beauty 
That dwell in nature, — of the 

heavenly forms 
We worship in our dreams, and the 

soft hues 
That stain the wild bird's wing, and 

flush the clouds 
When the sun sets. Within her eye 
The heaven of April, with its chang- 
ing light, 
And when it wears the blue of May, 

is hung, 
And on her lip the rich, red rose. 

Her hair 
Is like the summer tresses of the 

trees. 
When twilight makes them brown, 

and on her cheek 
Blushes the richness of an autumn 

sky. 
With ever-shifting beauty. Then her 

breath, 
It is so hke the gentle air of Spring, 
As, from the morning's dewy flowers, 

it comes 
Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy 
To have it round us, — and her silver 

voice 
Is the rich music of a summer bird, 
Heard in the still night, with its pas- 
sionate cadence. 



BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK. 

On sunny slope and beechen swell. 
The shadowed light of evening fell ; 



And, where the maple's leaf was 

brown, 
With soft and silent lapse came down 
The glory, that the wood receives, 
At sunset, in its brazen leaves. 

Far upward in the mellow light 
Rose the blue hills. One cloud of 

white. 
Around a far uplifted cone, 
In the warm blush of evening shone ; 
An image of the silver lakes. 
By which the Indian's soul awakes. 

But soon a funeral hymn was heard 
Where the soft breath of evening 

stirred 
The tall, gray forest ; and a band 
Of stern in heart, and strong in hand, 
Came winding down beside the wave, 
To lay the red chief in his grave. 

They sang, that by his native bowers 
He stood, in the last moon of flowers, 
And thirty snows had not yet shed 
Their glory on the warrior's head ; 
But, as the summer fruit decays. 
So died he in those naked days. 

A dark cloak of the roebuck's skin 
Covered the warrior, and within 
Its heavy folds the weapons, made 
For the hard toils of war, were laid ; 
The cuirass, woven of plaited reeds, 
And the broad belt of shells and 
beads. 

Before, a dark-haired virgin train 
Chanted the death dirge of the slain ; 
Behind, the long procession came 
Of hoary men and chiefs of fame. 
With heavy hearts, and eyes of grief, 
Leading the war-horse of their chief. 

Stripped of his proud and martial 
dress. 
Uncurbed, unreined, and riderless. 
With darting eye, and nostril spread, 
And heavy and impatient tread, 



COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 



13 



He came ; and oft that eye so proud 
Asked for his rider in the crowd. 

They buried the dark chief; they 
freed 
Beside the grave his battle steed ; 



And swift an arrow cleaved its way 
To his stern heart ! One piercing 

neigh 
Arose, — and, on the dead man's 

plain, 
The rider grasps his steed again. 



TRANSLATIONS. 

[Don Jorge Manrique, the author of the following poem, flourished in the last half of 
the fifteenth century. He followed the profession of arms, and died on the field of battle. 
Mariana, in his " History ot Spain," makes honorable mention of him, as being present at the 
siege of Ucles, and speaks of him as " a youth of estimable qualities, who in this war gave 
brilliant proofs of his valor. He died young, and was thus cut off from long exercising 
his great virtues and exhibiting to the world the light of his genius, which was already 
known to fame." He was mortally wounded in a skirmish near Cahavete, in the year 1479. 

The name of Rodrigo Manrique, the father of the poet, Conde de Paredes and Maestre 
de Santiago, is well known in Spanish history and song. He died in 1476 ; according to 
Mariana, in the town of Ucles; but, according to the poem of his son, in Ocaha. It was 
his death that called forth the poem upon which rests the hterary reputation of the younger 
Manrique. In the language of his historian, " Don Jorge Manrique, in an elegant Ode, 
full of poetic beauties, rich embellishments of genius, and high moral reflections, mourned 
the death of his father as with a funeral hymn." This praise is not exaggerated. The 
poem is a model in its kind. Its conception is solemn and beautiful; and, in accordance 
with it, the style moves on — calm, dignified, and majestic] 



COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 

FROM THE SPANISH. 

O LET the soul her slumbers break, 
Let thought be quickened, and awake ; 
Awake to see 

How soon this life is past and gone, 
And death comes softly stealing on, 
How silently ! 

Swiftly our pleasures glide away, 
Our hearts recall the distant day 
With many sighs ; 
The moments that are speeding fast 
We heed not, but the past, — the 

past, — 
More highly prize. 

Onward its course the present keeps. 
Onward the constant current sweeps, 
Till life is done ; 



And, did we judge of time aright, 
The past and future in their flight 
Would be as one. 

Let no one fondly dream again. 
That Hope and all her shadowy train 
Will not decay ; 

Fleeting as were the dreams of old, 
Remembered like a tale that 's told, 
They pass away. 

Our lives are rivers, gliding free 
To that unfathomed, boundless sea, 
The silent grave ! 

Thither all earthly pomp and boast 
Roll, to be swallowed up and lost 
In one dark wave. 

Thither the mighty torrents stray, 
Thither the brook pursues its way, 



'4 



COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 



And tinkling rill. 
They all are equal. Side by side 
The poor man and the son of pride 
Lie calm and still. 

I will not here invoke the throng 

Of orators and sons of song, 

The deathless few ; 

Fiction entices and deceives, 

And, sprinkled o'er her fragrant leaves, 

Lies poisonous dew. 

To One alone my thoughts arise. 
The Eternal Truth, — the Good and 

Wise, — 
To Him I cry. 

Who shared on earth our common lot, 
But the world comprehended not 
His deity. 

This world is but the rugged road 
Which leads us to the bright abode 
Of peace above ; 

So let us choose that narrow way. 
Which leads no traveller's foot astray 
From realms of love. 

Our cradle is the starting-place. 
In life we run the onward race, 
And reach the goal ; 
When, in the mansions of the blest, 
Death leaves to its eternal rest 
The weary soul. 

Did we but use it as we ought. 
This world would school each wan- 
dering thought 
To its high state. 

Faith wings the soul beyond the sky. 
Up to that better world on high, 
For which we wait. 

Yes, — the glad messenger of love, 
To guide us to our home above, 
The Saviour came ; 
Born amid mortal cares and fears, 
He suffered in this vale of tears 
A death of shame. 



Behold of what delusive worth 

The bubbles we pursue on earth, 

The shapes we chase, 

Amid a world of treachery ! 

They vanish ere death shuts the eye, 

And leave no trace. 

Time steals them from us, — chances 

strange. 
Disastrous accidents, and change, 
That come to all ; 
Even in the most exalted state, 
Relentless sweeps the stroke of fate ; 
The strongest fall. 

Tell me, — the charms that lovers 

seek 
In the clear eye and blushing cheek, 
The hues that play 
O'er rosy lip and brow of snow, 
When hoary age approaches slow, 
Ah, where are they .'' 

The cunning skill, the curious arts. 
The glorious strength that youth 

imparts 
In life's first stage; 
These shall become a heavy weight. 
When Time swings wide his outward 

gate 
To weary age. 

The noble blood of Gothic name, 
Heroes emblazoned high to fame, 
In long array ; 

How, in the onward course of time, 
The landmarks of that race sublime 
Were swept away ! 

Some, the degraded slaves of lust. 
Prostrate and trampled in the dust. 
Shall rise no more ; 
Others, by guilt and crime, maintain 
The scutcheon, that, without a stain. 
Their fathers bore. 

Wealth and the high estate of pride, 
With what untimely speed they glide, 



f 



COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 



15 



How soon depart ! 

Bid not the shadowy phantoms stay, 
The vassals of a mistress they, 
Of fickle heart. 

These gifts in Fortune's hands are 

found ; 
Her swift revolving wheel turns round, 
And they are gone ! 
No rest the inconstant goddess knows. 
But changing, and without repose. 
Still hurries on. 

Even could the hand of avarice save 
Its gilded baubles, till the grave 
Reclaimed its prey, 
Let none on such poor hopes rely ; 
Life, like an empty dream, flits by. 
And where are they? 

Earthly desires and sensual lust 
Are passions springing from the 

dust, — 
They fade and die ; 
But, in the life beyond the tomb, 
They seal the immortal spirit's doom 
Eternally ! 

The pleasures and delights, which 

mask 
In treacherous smiles life's serious 

task, 
What are they, all. 
But the fleet coursers of the chase. 
And death an ambush in the race, 
Wherein we fall? 

No foe, no dangerous pass, we heed. 
Brook no delay, — but onward speed 
With loosened rein ; 
And, when the fatal snare is near, 
We strive to check our mad career. 
But strive in vain. 

Could we new charms to age impart, 
And fashion with a cunning art 
The human face, 

As we can clothe the soul with light, 
And make the glorious spirit bright 
With heavenly grace, — 



How busily each passing hour 
Should we exert that magic power. 
What ardor show. 
To deck the sensual slave of sin. 
Yet leave the freeborn soul within. 
In weeds of woe ! 

Monarchs,* the powerful and the 

strong. 
Famous in history and in song 
Of olden time, 

Saw, by the stern decrees of fate. 
Their kingdoms lost, and desolate 
Their race sublime. 

Whois the champion? whothe strong? 
Pontiff and priest, and sceptred 

throng? 
On these shall fall 
As heavily the hand of Death, 
As when it stays the shepherd's breath 
Beside his stall. 

I speak not of the Trojan name, 
Neither its glory nor its shame 
Has met our eyes ; 
Nor of Rome's great and glorious 

dead, 
Though we have heard so oft, and 

read. 
Their histories. 

Little avails it now to know 
Of ages passed so long ago, 
Nor how they rolled ; 
Our theme shall be of yesterday, 
Which to oblivion sweeps away, 
Like days of old. 

Where is the King, Don Juan? 

Where 
Each royal prince and noble heir 
Of Aragon ? 

Where are the courtly gallantries ? 
The deeds of love and high emprise, 
In battle done? 

Tourney and joust, that charmed the 

eye, 
And scarf, and gorgeous panoply. 



i6 



COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 



And nodding plume, — 
What were they but a pageant scene? 
What but the garlands, gay and green, 
That deck the tomb? 

Where are the high-born dames, and 

where 
Their gay attire, and jewelled hair, 
And odors sweet? 
Where are the gentle knights, that 

came 
To kneel, and breathe love's ardent 

flame. 
Low at their feet ? 

Where is the song of Troubadour? 
Where are the lute and gay tambour 
They loved of yore? 
Where is the mazy dance of old, 
The flowing robes, inwrought with 

gold, 
The dancers wore? 

And he who next the sceptre swayed, 
Henry, whose royal court displayed 
Such power and pride ; 
O, in what winning smiles arrayed. 
The world its various pleasures laid 
His throne beside ! 

But O ! how false and full of guile 
That world, which wore so soft a 

smile 
But to betray ! 

She, that had been his friend before, 
Now from the fated monarch tore 
Her charms away. 

The countless gifts, — the stately 

walls. 
The royal palaces, and halls, 
All filled with gold ; 
Plate with armorial bearings wrought. 
Chambers with ample treasures fraught 
Of wealth untold ; 

The noble steeds, and harness bright. 
The gallant lord, and stalwart knight. 
In rich array, — 



Where shall we seek them now? 

Alas ! 
Like the bright dewdrops on the 

grass, 
They passed away. 

His brother, too, whose factious zeal 
Usurped the sceptre of Castile, 
Unskilled to reign ; 
What a gay, brilliant court had he, 
When all the flower of chivalry 
Was in his train ! 

But he was mortal ; and the breath. 
That flamed from the hot forge of 

Death, 
Blasted his years ; 

Judgment of God ! that flame by thee, 
When raging fierce and fearfully, 
Was quenched in tears ! 

Spain's haughty Constable, — the true 
And gallant Master, whom we knew 
Most loved of all. 

Breathe not a whisper of his pride, — 
He on the gloomy scafl"old died. 
Ignoble fall ! 

The countless treasures of his care, 
His hamlets green, and cities fair. 
His mighty power, — 
What were they all but grief and 

shame, 
Tears and a broken heart, when came 
The parting hour ? 

His other brothers, proud and high. 
Masters, who, in prosperity. 
Might rival kings ; 
Who made the bravest and the best 
The bondsmen of their high behest, 
Their underlings ; 

What was their prosperous estate. 
When high exalted and elate 
With power and pride ? 
What, but a transient gleam of light, 
A flame, which, glaring at its height, 
Grew dim and died? 



COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 



So many a duke of royal name, 
Marquis and count of spotless fame, 
And baron brave, 

That might the sword of empire wield, 
All these, O Death, hast thou con- 
cealed 
In the dark grave ! 

Their deeds of mercy and of arms, 
In peaceful days, of war's alarms, 
When thou dost show, 
O Death, thy stern and angry face. 
One stroke of thy all-powerful mace 
Can overthrow. 

cJnnumbered hosts, that threaten nigh. 
Pennon and standard flaunting high, 
And flag displayed ; 
High battlements intrenched around, 
Bastion, and moated wall, and mound 
And palisade, 

And covered trench, secure and 

deep, — 
All these cannot one victim keep, 
O Death, from thee. 
When thou dost battle in thy wrath, 
And thy strong shafts pursue their 

path 
Unerringly. 

O World ; so few the years we live, 
Would that the life which thou dost 

give 
Were life indeed ! 
Alas ! thy sorrows fall so fast. 
Our happiest hour is when at last 
The soul is freed. 

Dur days are covered o'er with grief. 

And sorrows neither few nor brief 

Veil all in gloom ; 

Left desolate of real good, 

Within this cheerless solitude 

No pleasures bloom. 



Thy pilgrimage begins in tears, 
And ends in bitter doubts and fears, 



Or dark despair ; 
Midway so many toils appear. 
That he who hngers longest here 
Knows most of care. 

Thy goods are bought with many a 

groan. 
By the hot sweat of toil alone. 
And weary hearts ; 
Fleet-footed is the approach of woe, 
But with a lingering step and slow 
Its form departs. 

And he, the good man's shield and 

shade. 
To whom all hearts their homage paid, 
As Virtue's son, — 
Roderic Manrique, — he whose name 
Is written on the scroll of Fame, 
Spain's champion ; 

His signal deeds and prowess high 
Demand no pompous eulogy, — 
Ye saw his deeds ! 
Why should their praise in verse be 

sung? 
The name, that dwells on every tongue. 
No minstrel needs. 

To friends a friend ; — how kind to all 
The vassals of this ancient hall 
And feudal fief ! 

To foes how stern a foe was he ! 
And to the valiant and the free 
How brave a chief! 

What prudence with the old and wise ; 

What grace in youthful gayeties ; 

In all how sage ! 

Benignant to the serf and slave. 

He showed the base and falsely brave 

A lion's rage. 

His was Octavian's prosperous star. 

The rush of Caesar's conquering car 

At battle's call ; 

His, Scipio's virtue ; his, the skill 

And the indomitable will 

Of Hannibal. 



i8 



COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 



His was a Trajan's goodness, — his 

A Titus' noble charities 

And righteous laws ; 

The arm of Hector, and the might 

Of Tully, to maintain the right 

In truth's just cause ; 

The clemency of Antonine, 
Aurelius' countenance divine, 
Firm, gentle, still ; 
The eloquence of Adrian, 
And Theodosius' love to man, 
And generous will ; 

In tented field and bloody fray. 
An Alexander's vigorous sway 
And stern command ; 
The faith of Constantine ; ay, more. 
The fervent love Camillus bore 
His native land. 

He left no well-filled treasury, 

He heaped no pile of riches high, 

Nor massive plate ; 

He fought the Moors, — and, in their : 

fall. 
City and tower and castled wall 
Were his estate. 

Upon the hard-fought battle-ground, 
Brave steeds and gallant riders found 
A common grave ; 

And there the warrior's hand did gain 
The rents, and the long vassal train. 
That conquest gave. 

And if, of old, his halls displayed 
The honored and exalted grade 
His worth had gained, 
So, in the dark, disastrous hour. 
Brothers and bondsmen of his power 
His hand sustained. 

After high deeds, not left untold. 
In the stern warfare, which of old 
'T was his to share. 
Such noble leagues he made, that more 
And fairer regions, than before, 
His guerdon were. 



These are the records, half effaced. 
Which, with the hand of youth, he 

traced 
On history's page ; 
But with fresh victories he drew 
Each fading character anew 
In his old age. 

By his unrivalled skill, by great 
And veteran service to the state, 
By worth adored, 
He stood, in his high dignity, 
The proudest knight of chivalry, 
Knight of the Sword. 

He found his cities and domains 
Beneath a tyrant's galling chains 
And cruel power ; 
But, by fierce battle and blockade, 
Soon his own banner was displayed 
From every tower. 

By the tried valor of his hand. 

His monarch and his native land 

Were nobly served ; — 

Let Portugal repeat the story. 

And proud Castile, who shared the 

glory 
His arms deserved. 

And when so oft, for weal or woe, 

His life upon the fatal throw 

Had been cast down ; 

When he had served, with patriot zeal, 

Beneath the banner of Castile, 

His sovereign's crown ; 

And done such deeds of valor strong, 
That neither history nor song 
Can count them all ; 
Then, on Ocana's castled rock. 
Death at his portal came to knock, 
With sudden call, — 

Saying, " Good Cavalier, prepare 
To leave this world of toil and care 
With joyful mien ; 
Let thy strong heart of steel this day 



1| 

1 



COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 



19 



Put on its armor for the fray, — 
The closing scene. 

" Since thou hast been, in battle- 
strife, 
So prodigal of health and life, 
For earthly fame, 
Let virtue nerve thy heart again ; 
Loud on the last stern battle-plain 
They call thy name. 



near 
Too terrible for man, — nor fear 
To meet the foe ; 
Nor let thy noble spirit grieve. 
Its life of glorious fame to leave 
On earth below. 

" A life of honor and of worth 

Has no eternity on earth, - 

'T is but a name ; 

And yet its glory far exceeds 

That base and sensual life, which leads 

To want and shame. 

" The eternal life, beyond the sky. 
Wealth cannot purchase, nor the high 
And proud estate ; 

The soul in dalliance laid, — the spirit 
Corrupt with sin, — shall not inherit 
A joy so great. 

"But the good monk, in cloistered 

cell, 
Shall gain it by his book and bell, 
His prayers and tears ; 
And the brave knight, whose arm 

endures 
Fierce battle, and against the Moors 
His standard rears. 

" And thou, brave knight, whose hand 

has poured 
The life-blood of the Pagan horde 
O'er all the land, 

In heaven shalt thou receive, at length. 
The guerdon of thine earthly strength 
And dauntless hand. 



" Cheered onward by this promise 

sure. 
Strong in the faith entire and pure 
Thou dost profess. 
Depart, — thy hope is certainty, — 
The third — the better life on high 
Shalt thou possess." 

" O Death, no more, no more delay ! 

My spirit longs to flee away. 

And be at rest ; 

The will of Heaven my will shall 

be, — 
I bow to the divine decree, 
To God's behest. 



" My soul is ready to depart, 

No thought rebels, the obedient heart 

Breathes forth no sigh ; 

The wish on earth to linger still 

Were vain, when 't is God's sovereign 

will 
That we shall die. 

"O thou, that for our sins didst 

take 
A human form, and humbly make 
Thy home on earth ; 
Thou, that to thy divinity 
A human nature didst ally 
By mortal birth, 

" And in that form didst suffer here 
Torment, and agony, and fear, 
So patiently ; 

By thy redeeming grace alone. 
And not for merits of my own, 
O, pardon me ! " 

As thus the dying warrior prayed. 
Without one gathering mist or shade 
Upon his mind ; 
Encircled by his family. 
Watched by affection's gentle eye 
So soft and kind ; 

His soul to Him, who gave it, rose ; 
God lead it to its long repose, 



THE GOOD SHEPHERD.— TO-MORROW. 



Its glorious rest ! 


Rejoicest at the contrite sinner's vow. 


And, though the warriors sun has set, 


O, wait ! — to thee my weary soul is 


Its light shall linger round us yet, 


crying, — 


Bright, radiant, blest. ^ 


Wait for me ! — Yet why ask it, when 

I see, 
With feet nailed to the cross, thou 'rt 






waiting still for me. 


THE GOOD SHEPHERD. 




FROM THE SPANISH OF LOPE DE 




VEGA. 


TO-MORROW. 


Shepherd ! that with thine amorous, 


FROM THE SPANISH OF LOPE DE 


sylvan song 


VEGA. 


Hast broken the slumber which en- 


Lord, what am I, that, with unceasing 


compassed me, — 


care. 


That mad'st thy crook from the 


Thou didst seek after me, — that thou 


accursed tree. 


didst wait. 


On which thy powerful arms were 


Wet with unhealthy dews, before my 


stretched so long ! 


gate. 


Lead me to mercy's ever-flowing foun- 


And pass the gloomy nights of winter 


tains ; 


there? 


For thou my shepherd, guard, and 


strange delusion ! — that I did not 


guide shalt be. 


greet 


I will obey thy voice, and wait to see 


Thy blest approach, and 0,to Heaven 


Thy feet all beautiful upon the moun- 


how lost. 


tains. 


If my ingratitude's unkindly frost 


Hear, Shepherd ! thou who for thy 


Has chilled the bleeding wounds upon 


flock art dying. 


thy feet. 


0, wash away these scarlet sins, for 


How oft my guardian angel gently 


thou 


cried, 



1 This poem of Manrique is a great favorite in Spain. No less than four poetic 
Glosses, or running commentaries, upon it have been published, no one of which, how- 
ever, possesses great poetic merit. That of the Carthusian monk, Rodrigo de Valde- 
penas, is the best. It is known as the Glosa del Cartujo. There is also a prose 
Commentary by Luis de Aranda. 

The following stanzas of the poem were found in the author's pocket, after his death on 
the field of battle. 



" O World ! so few the years we live, 

Would that the life which thou dost give 

Were life indeed ! 

Alas 1 thy sorrows fall so fast. 

Our happiest hour is when at last 

The soul is freed. 

" Our days are covered o'er with grief, 

And sorrows neither few nor brief 

Veil all in gloom ; 

Left desolate of real good, 

Within this cheerless solitude 

No pleasures bloom. 



" Thy pilgrimage begins in tears. 
And ends in bitter doubts and fears, 
Or dark despair; 
Midway so many toils appear. 
That he who lingers longest here 
Knows most of care. 

" Thy goods are bought with many a groan, 

By the hot sweat of toil alone, 

And weary hearts ; 

Fleet-footed is the approach of woe, 

But with a lingering step and slow 

Its form departs." 



THE NATIVE LAND.— THE BROOK. 



" Soul, from thy casement look, and 
thou shalt see 

How he persists to knock and wait 
for thee ! " 

And, O ! how often to that voice of 
sorrow, 

" To-morrow we will open," I replied. 

And when the morrow came I an- 
swered still, " To-morrow." 



THE NATIVE LAND. 

FROM THE SPANISH OF FRANCISCO 
DE ALDANA. 

Clear fount of light ! my native land 

on high 
Bright with a glory that shall never 

fade ! 
Mansion of truth ! without a veil or 

shade. 
Thy holy quiet meets the spirit's eye. 
There dwells the soul in its ethereal 

essence, 
Gasping no longer for life's feeble 

breath ; 
But, sentinelled in heaven, its glorious 

presence 
With pitying eye beholds, yet fears 

not, death. 
Beloved country ! banished from thy 

shore, 
A stranger in this prison-house of clay. 
The exiled spirit weeps and sighs for 

thee ! 
Heavenward the bright perfections I 

adore 
Direct, and the sure promise cheers 

the way. 
That, whither love aspires, there shall 

my dwelling be. 



THE IMAGE OF GOD. 

FROM THE SPANISH OF FRANCISCO 
DE ALDANA. 

O Lord ! that seest, from yon starry 

height, 
Centred in one the future and the past, 



Fashioned in thine own image, see 

how fast 
The world obscures in me what once 

was bright ! 
Eternal Sun ! the warmth which thou 

hast given. 
To cheer life's flowery April, fast 

decays ; 
Yet, in the hoary winter of my days. 
Forever green shall be my trust in 

Heaven. 
Celestial King ! O let thy presence 

pass 
Before my spirit, and an image fair 
Shall meet that look of mercy from 

on high. 
As the reflected image in a glass 
Doth meet the look of him who seeks 

it there, 
And owes its being to the gazer's eye. 



THE BROOK. 

FROM THE SPANISH. 

Laugh of the mountain ! — lyre of 

bird and tree ! 
Pomp of the meadow ! mirror of the 

morn ! 
The soul of April, unto whom are born 
The rose and jessamine, leaps wild in 

thee! 
Although, where'er thy devious cur- 
rent strays. 
The lap of earth with gold and silver 

teems. 
To me thy clear proceeding brighter 

seems 
Than golden sands, that charm each 

shepherd's gaze. 
How without guile thy bosom, all 

transparent 
As the pure crystal, lets the curious 

eye 
Thy secrets scan, thy smooth, round 

pebbles count ! 
How, without malice murmuring, 

glides thy current ! 



THE CELESTIAL PILOT. 



1 



O sweet simplicity of days gone by ! 
Thou shun^st the haunts of man, to 
dwell in limpid fount! 



THE CELESTIAL PILOT. 

FROM DANTE. PURGATORIO II. 

And now, behold ! as at the approach 

of morning, 
Through the gross vapors, Mars grows 

fiery red 
Down in the west upon the ocean 

floor, 

Appeared to me, — may I again be- 
hold it!— 

A light along the sea, so swiftly 
coming. 

Its motion by no flight of wing is 
equalled. 

And when therefrom I had withdrawn 

a little 
Mine eyes, that I might question my 

conductor. 
Again I saw it brighter grown and 

larger. 

Thereafter, on all sides of it, appeared 
1 knew not what of white, and under- 
neath. 
Little by little, there came forth 
another. 

My master yet had uttered not a word. 
While the first brightness into wings 

unfolded ! 
But, when he clearly recognized the 

pilot, 

He cried aloud : '' Quick, quick, and 

bow the knee! 
Behold the Angel of God ! fold up 

thy hands ! 
Henceforward shalt thou see such 

officers ! 



" See, how he scorns all human 
arguments. 

So that no oar he wants, nor other 
sail 

Than his own wings, between so dis- 
tant shores ! 



" See, how he holds them, pointed 

straight to heaven, 
Fanning the air with the eternal 

pinions. 
That do not moult themselves like 

mortal hair!" 



And then, as nearer and more near 

us came 
The Bird of Heaven, more glorious 

he appeared. 
So that the eye could not sustain his 

presence, 



But down I cast it ; and he came to 

shore 
With a small vessel, gliding swift and 

light, 
So that the water swallowed nought 

thereof. 



Upon the stern stood the Celestial 

Pilot ! 
Beatitude seemed written in his face ! 
And more than a hundred spirits sat 

within. 



" In exitu Israel out of Egypt ! " 
Thus sang they all together in one 

voice. 
With whatso in that Psalm is after 

written. 

Then made he sign of holy rood upon 

them, 
Whereat all cast themselves upon the 

shore, 
And he departed swiftly as he came. 



THE TERRESTRIAL PARADISE. — BEATRICE. 



23 



THE TERRESTRIAL PARA- 
DISE. 

FROM DANTE. PURGATORIO XXVIII. 

LCNGING already to search in and 
round 

The heavenly forest, dense and liv- 
ing-green, 

Which to the eyes tempered the new- 
born day, 

Withouten more delay I left the bank, 
Crossing the level country slowly, 

slowly. 
Over the soil, that everywhere 

breathed fragrance. 

A gently breathing air, that no 

mutation 
Had in itself, smote me upon the 

forehead, 
No heavier blow, than of a pleasant 

breeze. 

Whereat the tremulous branches 

readily 
Did all of them bow downward 

towards that side 
Where its first shadow casts the Holy 

Mountain ; 

Yet not from their upright direction 

bent 
So that the little birds upon their tops 
Should cease the practice of their 

tuneful art ; 

But, with full-throated joy, the hours 

of prime 
Singing received they in the midst of 

foliage 
That made monotonous burden to 

their rhymes, 

Even as from branch to branch it 

gathering swells. 
Through the pine forests on the shore 

of Chiassi, 
When ^olus unlooses the Sirocco. 



Already my slow steps had led me on 
Into the ancient wood so far, that 1 
Could see no more the place where I 
had entered. 

And lo ! my farther course cut off a 
river, 

Which, towards the left hand, with 
its little waves, 

Bent down the grass, that on its mar- 
gin sprang. 

All waters that on earth most limpid 
are, 

Would seem to have within them- 
selves some mixture, 

Compared with that, which nothing 
doth conceal, 

Although it moves on with a brown, 

brown current, 
Under the shade perpetual, that never 
Ray of the sun lets in, nor of the 

moon. 



BEATRICE. 

FROM DANTE. PURGATORIO XXX., 
XXXI. 

Even as the Blessed, in the new cove- 
nant. 

Shall rise up quickened, each one from 
his grave. 

Wearing again the garments of the 
flesh, 

So, upon that celestial chariot, 
A hundred rose ad voceni tanti senis, 
Ministers and messengers of life eter- 
nal. 

They all were saying : " Benedictus 

qui venis^'' 
And scattering flowers above and 

round about, 
" Manibus o date lilia ple?iisJ''* 



BEATRICE. — SPRING. 



1 once beheld, at the approach of day, 
The orient sky all stained with roseate 

hues, 
And the other heaven with light serene 

adorned. 

And the sun's face uprising, over- 
shadowed, 

So that, by temperate influence of 
vapors. 

The eye sustained his aspect for long 
while ; 

Thus in the bosom of a cloud of 
flowers, 

Which from those hands angelic were 
thrown up, 

And down descended inside and with- 
out, 

With crown of olive o'er a snow-white 

veil, 
Appeared a lady, under a green mantle, 
Vested in colors of the living flame. 

***** 
Even as the snow, among the Hving 

ratters 
Upon the back of Italy, congeals, 
Blown on and beaten by Sclavonian 

winds. 

And then, dissolving, filters through 

itself, 
"Whene'er the land, that loses shadow, 

breathes. 
Like as a taper melts before a fire, 

Even sijch I was, without a sigh or 

tear, 
Before the song of those who chime 

forever 
After the chiming of the eternal 

spheres ; 

But, when I heard in those sweet 

melodies 
Compassion for me, more than had 

they said, 



" O wherefore, lady, dost thou thus 
consume him '^ " 



The ice, that was about my heart con- 
gealed. 

To air and water changed, and, in my 
anguish, 

Through lips and eyes came gushing 
from my breast. 

***** 

Confusion and dismay, together min- 
gled. 

Forced such a feeble " Yes ! " out of 
my mouth, 

To understand it one had need of 
sight. 

Even as a cross-bow breaks, when 

't IS discharged, 
Too tensely drawn the bow-string and 

the bow, 
And with less force the arrow hits the 

mark; 

So I gave way under this heavy 

burden, 
Gushing forth into bitter tears and 

sighs. 
And the voice, fainting, flagged upon 

its passage. 



SPRING. 



FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES 
D'ORLEANS. XV. CENTURY. 

Gentle Spring ! — in sunshine clad. 

Well dost thou thy power display ! 

For Winter maketh the light heart 

sad. 
And thou, — thou makest the sad J 

heart gay. 
He sees thee, and calls to his gloomy 

train. 
The sleet, and the snow, and the wind, 

and the rain ; 



THE CHILD ASLEEP. — THE GRAVE. 



25 



And they shrink away, and they flee 
in fear, 
When thy merry step draws near. 

Winter giveth the fields and the trees, 
so old, 
Their beards of icicles and snow ; 
And the rain, it raineth so fast and 
cold. 
We must cower over the embers 
low ; 
And, snugly housed from the wind 

and weather, 
Mope like birds that are changing 

feather. 
But the storm retires, and the sky 
grows clear. 
When thy merry step draws near. 

Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy 

sky 
Wrap him round with a mantle of 

cloud ; 
But, Heaven be praised, thy step is 

nigh ; 
Thou tearest away the mournful 

shroud. 
And the earth looks bright, and Win- 
ter surly, 
Who has toiled for nought both late 

and early, 
Is banished afar by the new-born 

year. 
When thy merry step draws near. 



THE CHILD ASLEEP. 

FROM THE FRENCH. 

Sweet babe ! true portrait of thy 
father's face. 
Sleep on the bosom that thy lips 
have pressed ! 
Sleep, little one ; and closely, gently 
place 
Thy drowsy eyelid on thy mother's 
breast. 



Upon that tender eye, my little friend, 
Soft sleep shall come, that cometh 
not to me ! 
I watch to see thee, nourish thee, 
defend ; — 
'T is sweet to watch for thee, — 
alone for thee ! 



His arms fall down ; sleep sits upon 
his brow ; 
His eye is closed ; he sleeps, nor 
dreams of harm. 
Wore not his cheek the apple's ruddy 
glow, 
Would you not say he slept on 
Death's cold arm ? 

Awake, my boy ! — I tremble with 
aflfright ! 
Awake, and chase this fatal thought ! 
— Unclose 
Thine eye but for one moment on the 
light ! 
Even at the price of thine, give me 
repose ! 

Sweet error ! — he but slept, — I 
breathe again ; — 
Come, gentle dreams, the hour of 
sleep beguile. 
O ! when shall he, for whom I sigh 
in vain. 
Beside me watch to see thy waking 
smile ? 



THE GRAVE. 

FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON. 

For thee was a house built 

Ere thou wast born. 

For thee was a mould meant 

Ere thou of mother camest. 

But it is not made ready. 

Nor its depth measured, 

Nor is it seen 

How long it shall be. 

Now I bring thee 



26 



THE GRAVE. — KING CHRISTIAN. 



Where thou shalt be ; 
Now I shall measure thee, 
And the mould afterwards. 

Thy house is not 
Highly timbered, 
It is unhigh and low ; 
When thou art therein, 
The heel-ways are low, 
The side-ways unhigh. 
The roof is built 
Thy breast full nigh. 
So thou shalt in mould 
Dwell full cold, 
Dimly and dark. 

Doorless is that house, 
And dark it is within ; 
There thou art fast detained 
And Death hath the key. 
Loathsome is that earth-house. 
And grim within to dwell. 
There thou shalt dwell, 
And worms shall divide thee. 

Thus thou art laid. 
And leavest thy friends ; 
Thou hast no friend. 
Who will come to thee, 
Who will ever see 
How that house pleaseth thee ; 
Who will ever open 
The door for thee 
And descend after thee, 
For soon thou art loathsome 
And hateful to see. 



KING CHRISTIAN. 

A NATIONAL SONG OF DENMARK. 

FROM THE DANISH OF JOHANNES 
EVALD. 

King Christian stood by the lofty 
mast 

In mist and smoke ; 
His sword was hammering so fast. 



Through Gothic helm and brain it 

passed ; 
Then sank each hostile hulk and mast. 

In mist and smoke. 
" Fly ! " shouted they, " fly, he who can ! 
Who braves of Denmark^s Christian 

The stroke?" 

Nils Juel gave heed to the tempest's 
roar, 

Now is the hour ! 
He hoisted his blood-red flag once 

more, 
And smote upon the foe full sore. 
And shouted loud, through the tem- 
pest's roar, 

" Now is the hour ! " 
" Fly ! " shouted they, " for shelter 

fly! 
Of Denmark's Juel who can defy 
The power ?" 

North Sea ! a glimpse of Wessel rent 

Thy murky sky ! 
Then champions to thine arms were 

sent. 
Terror and Death glared where he 

went ; 
From the waves was heard a wail, 
that rent 

Thy murky sky ! 
From Denmark, thunders Torden- 

skiol'. 
Let each to Heaven commend his 
soul, 

And fly ! 

Path of the Dane to fame and might ! 

Dark-rolling wave ! 
Receive thy friend, who, scorning 

flight, 
Goes to meet danger with despite. 
Proudly as thou the tempest's might, 

Dark-rolling wave ! 
And amid pleasures and alarms. 
And war and victory, be thine arms 

My grave ! ^ 

1 Nils Juel was a celebrated Danish Admiral, and Peter Wessel, a Vice-Admiral, who 
for his great prowess received the popular title of Tordenskiold, or Thunder-shield. In 
childhood he was a tailor's apprentice, and rose to his high rank before the age of twenty- 
eight, when he was killed in a duel. 



THE HAPPIEST LAND.— THE BIRD AND THE SHIP. 



27 



THE HAPPIEST LAND. 

FRAGMENT OF A MODERN BALLAD. 
FROM THE GERMAN. 

There sat one day in quiet. 
By an alehouse on the Rhine, 

Four hale and hearty fellows, 
And drank the precious wine. 

The landlord's daughter filled their 
cups, 

Around the rustic board ; 
Then sat they all so calm and still. 

And spake not one rude word. 

But, when the maid departed, 
A Swabian raised his hand. 

And cried, all hot and flushed with 
wine, 
" Long live the Swabian land ! 

" The greatest kingdom upon earth 
Cannot with that compare ; 

With all the stout and hardy men 
And the nut-brown maidens there." 

" Ha ! " cried a Saxon, laughing, — 
And dashed his beard with wine ; 

"I had rather live in Lapland, 

Than that Swabian land of thine ! 

" The goodliest land on all this earth, 

It is the Saxon land ! 
There have I as many maidens 

As fingers on this hand ! " 

" Hold your tongues ! both Swabian 
and Saxon ! " 

A bold Bohemian cries ; 
** If there 's a heaven upon this earth. 

In Bohemia it lies. 

" There the tailor blows the flute, 
And the cobbler blows the horn, 

And the miner blows the bugle. 
Over mountain gorge and bourn." 
***** 

And then the landlord's daughter 
Up to heaven raised her hand, 



And said, " Ye may no more con- 
tend, — 
There lies the happiest land ! " 



THE WAVE. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF TIEDGE. 

" WHITHER, thou turbid wave 
Whither, with so much haste, 
As if a thief wert thou } " 

" I am the Wave of Life, 
Stained with my margin's dust ; 
From the struggle and the strife 
Of the narrow stream I fly 
To the Sea's immensity, 
To wash from me the slime 
Of the muddy banks of Time." 



THE DEAD. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF STOCKMANN. 

How they so softly rest. 
All, all the holy dead. 
Unto whose dwelling-place 
Now doth my soul draw near ! 
How they so softly rest, 
All in their silent graves, 
Deep to corruption 
Slowly down-sinking ! 

And they no longer weep, 
Here, where complaint is still ! 
And they no longer feel, 
Here, where all gladness flies ! 
And by the cypresses 
Softly o'ershadowed, 
Until the Angel 
Calls them, they slumber ! 



THE BIRD AND THE SHIP. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF MULLER. 

" The rivers rush into the sea. 
By castle and town they go ; 

The winds behind them merrily 
Their noisy trumpets blow. 



28 



WHITHER? — BEWARE ! 



"The clouds are passing far and high, 
We Httle birds in them play ; 

And everything, that can sing and fly, 
Goes with us, and far away. 

" I greet thee, bonny boat ! Whither, 
or whence, 
With thy fluttering golden 
band?" — 
" I greet thee, little bird ! To the 
wide sea 
I haste from the narrow land. 

" Full and swollen is every sail ; 

I see no longer a hill, 
I have trusted all to the sounding gale, 

And it will not let me stand still. 

" And wilt thou, little bird, go with us ? 

Thou mayest stand on the main- 
mast tall, 
For full to sinking is my house 

With merry companions all." — 

" I need not and seek not company, 
Bonny boat, I can sing all alone ; 

For the mainmast tall too heavy am I, 
Bonny boat, I have wings of my 



" High over the sails, high over the 
mast, 
Who shall gainsay these joys ? 
When thy merry companions are still, 
at last. 
Thou shalt hear the sound of my 
voice. 

"Who neither may rest, nor listen 
may, 

God bless them every one ! 
I dart away, in the bright blue day. 

And the golden fields of the sun. 

" Thus do I sing my weary song. 
Wherever the four winds blow ; 
And this same song, my whole life 
long, 
Neither Poet nor Printer may 
know." 



WHITHER ? 

FROM THE GERMAN OF MULLER. 

I HEARD a brooklet gushing 
From its rocky fountain near, 

Down into the valley rushing, 
So fresh and wondrous clear. 

I know not what came o'er me. 
Nor who the counsel gave ; 

But I must hasten downward. 
All with my pilgrim-stave ; 

Downward, and ever farther. 
And ever the brook beside ; 

And ever fresher murmured. 
And ever clearer, the tide. 

Is this the way I was going ? 

Whither, O brooklet, say ! 
Thou hast, with thy soft murmur, 

Murmured my senses away. 

What do I say of a murmur ? 

That can no murmur be ; 
'Tis the water-nymphs, that are 
singing 

Their roundelays under me. 

Let them sing, my friend, let them 
murmur, 

And wander merrily near; 
The wheels of a mill are going 

In every, brooklet clear. 



BEWARE ! 

FROM THE GERMAN. 

I KNOW a maiden fair to see. 

Take care ! 
She can both false and friendly be, 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not, 
She is fooling thee! 



SONG OF THE BELL.— THE CASTLE BY THE SEA. 



29 



She has two eyes, so soft and brown, 


Say ! how canst thou mourn ? 


Take care ! 


How canst thou rejoice ? 


She gives a side-glance and looks 


Thou art but metal dull ! 


down, 


And yet all our sorrowings, 


Beware ! Beware ! 


And all our rejoicings, 


Trust her not, 


Thou dost feel them all ! 


She is fooling thee ! 






God hath wonders many. 


And she has hair of a golden hue, 


Which we cannot fathom, 


Take care ! 


Placed within thy form ! 


And what she says it is not true, 


When the heart is sinking. 


Beware ! Beware ! 


Thou alone canst raise it, 


Trust her not, 


Trembling in the storm ! 


She is fooling thee ! 




She has a bosom as white as snow, 




Take care ! 


THE CASTLE BY THE SEA. 


She knows how much it is best to 




show. 


FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. 


Beware ! Beware ! 




Trust her not, 


" Hast thou seen that lordly castle. 


She is fooling thee ! 


That Castle by the Sea ? 


Golden and red above it 


She gives thee a garland woven fair, 


The clouds float gorgeously. 


Take care ! 
It is a fooPs-cap for thee to wear, 
Beware ! Beware ! 
Trust her not. 


" And fain it would stoop downward 
To the mirrored wave below ; 

And fain it would soar upward 
In the evening's crimson glow." 


She is fooling thee ! 




" Well have I seen that castle. 




That Castle by the Sea, 




And the moon above it standing. 


SONG OF THE BELL. 


And the mist rise solemnly." 


FROM THE GERMAN. 


" The winds and the waves of ocean. 




Had they a merry chime ? 


Bell ! thou soundest merrily, 


Didst thou hear, from those lofty 


When the bridal party 


chambers. 


To the church doth hie ! 


The harp and the minstrel's 


Bell ! thou soundest solemnly, 


rhyme ?" 


When, on Sabbath morning, 




Fields deserted lie ! 


" The winds and the waves of ocean, 




They rested quietly, 


Bell ! thou soundest merrily ; 


But I heard on the gale a sound of 


Tellest thou at evening. 


wail. 


Bed-time draweth nigh ! 


And tears came to mine eye." 


Bell ! thou soundest mournfully 




Tellest thou the bitter 


" And sawest thou on the turrets 


Parting hath gone by ! 


The King and his royal bride ? 



30 



THE BLACK KNIGHT. 



And the wave of their crimson 
mantles ? 
And the golden crown of pride ? 

" Led they not forth, in rapture, 
A beauteous maiden there ? 

Resplendent as the morning sun, 
Beaming with golden hair ?" 

" Well saw I the ancient parents, 
Without the crown of pride ; 

They were moving slow, in weeds of 
woe, 
No maiden was by their side !" 



THE BLACK KNIGHT. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. 

'T WAS Pentecost, the Feast of 

Gladness, 
When woods and fields put off all 
sadness. 
Thus began the King and spake : 
" So from the halls 
Of ancient Hofburg's walls, 

A luxuriant Spring shall break." 

Drums and trumpets echo loudly, 
Wave the crimson banners proudly. 

From balcony the King looked on ; 
In the play of spears. 
Fell all the cavaliers, 

Before the monarch's stalwart son. 

To the barrier of the fight 
Rode at last a sable Knight. 

" Sir Knight ! your name and 
scutcheon, say ! " 
" Should I speak it here. 
Ye would stand aghast with fear ; 

I am a Prince of mighty sway ! " 

When he rode into the lists, 
The arch of heaven grew black with 
mists. 
And the castle 'gan to rock. 



At the first blow. 
Fell the youth from saddle-bow. 
Hardly rises from the shock. 

Pipe and viol call the dances, 
Torch-light through the high halls 
glances ; 

Waves a mighty shadow in ; 
With manner bland 
Doth ask the maiden's hand. 

Doth with her the dance begin ; 

Danced in sable iron sark. 
Danced a measure weird and dark. 

Coldly clasped her limbs around. 
From breast and hair 
Down fall from her the fair 

Flowerets, faded, to the ground. 

To the sumptuous banquet came 
Every Knight and every Dame. 
. 'Twixt son and daughter all dis- 
traught, 
With mournful mind 
The ancient King reclined, 

Gazed at them in silent thought. 

Pale the children both did look. 
But the guest a beaker took ; 

" Golden wine will make you 
whole ! " 
The children drank. 
Gave many a courteous thank ; 

" O that draught was very cool ! " 

Each the father's breast embraces, 
Son and daughter ; and their faces 

Colorless grow utterly. 
Whichever way 
Looks the fear-struck father gray, 

He beholds his children die. 

" Woe ! the blessed children both 
Takest thou in the joy of youth ; 

Take me, too, the joyless father ! " 
Spake the grim Guest, 
From his hollow, cavernous breast, 

" Roses in the spring I gather ! " 



SONG OF THE SILENT LAND. — L'EN VOL 



SONG OF THE SILENT LAND. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF SALIS. 

Into the Silent Land ! 

Ah ! who shall lead us thither? 

Clouds in the evening sky more darkly 

gather, 
And shattered wrecks lie thicker on 

the strand. 
Who leads us with a gentle hand 
Thither, O thither, 
Into the Silent Land ? 

Into the Silent Land ! 

To you, ye boundless regions 

Of all perfection ! Tender morning 

visions 
Of beauteous souls ! The Future's 

pledge and band 
Who in Life's battle firm doth stand, 
Shall bear Hope's tender blossoms 
Into the Silent Land ! 

O Land ! O Land ! 

For all the broken-hearted 

The mildest herald by our fate allotted. 

Beckons, and with inverted torch doth 

stand 
To lead us with a gentle hand 



Into the land of the great Departed, 
Into the Silent Land ! 



L'ENVOI. 

Ye voices, that arose 
After the Evening's close. 
And whispered to my restless heart 
repose ! 

Go, breathe it in the ear 

Of all who doubt and fear, 

And say to them, " Be of good cheer ! " 

Ye sounds, so low and calm, 
That in the groves of balm 
Seemed to me like an angel's psalm ! 

Go, mingle yet once more 

With the perpetual roar 

Of the pine forest, dark and hoar ! 

Tongues of the dead, not lost. 
But speaking from death's frost, 
Like fiery tongues at Pentecost ! 

Glimmer, as funeral lamps. 
Amid the chills and damps 
Of the vast plain where Death encamps. 



BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS, 1841. 
PREFACE. 



There is one poem in this volume, in reference to which a few introductory 
remarks may be useful. It is The Children of the Lord''s Supper, from the 
Swedish of Bishop Tegner ; a poem which enjoys no inconsiderable reputation 
in the North of Europe, and for its beauty and simplicity merits the attention 
of English readers. It is an Idyl, descriptive of scenes in a Swedish village ; 
and belongs to the same class of poems as the Luise of Voss and the Her- 
ma7in U7id Dorothea of Goethe. But the Swedish Poet has been guided by a 
surer taste than his German predecessors. His tone is pure and elevated ; 
and he rarely, if ever, mistakes what is trivial for what is simple. 

There is something patriarchal still lingering about rural life in Sweden, 
which renders it a fit theme for song. Almost primeval simplicity reigns over 
that Northern land, — almost primeval solitude and stillness. You pass out 



32 PREFACE. 

from the gate of the city, and, as if by magic, the scene changes to a wild, 
woodland landscape. Around you are forests of fir. Overhead hang the 
long, fan-like branches, trailing with moss, and heavy with red and blue cones. 
Under foot is a carpet of yellow leaves ; and the air is warm and balmy. On 
a wooden bridge you cross a little silver stream ; and anon come forth into a 
pleasant and sunny land of farms. Wooden fences divide the adjoining fields. 
Across the road are gates, which are opened by troops of children. The 
peasants take off their hats as you pass ; you sneeze, and they cry, " God bless 
you." The houses in the villages and smaller towns are all built of hewn 
timber, and for the most part painted red. The floors of the taverns are 
strewn with the fragrant tips of fir boughs. In many villages there are no 
taverns, and the peasants take turns in receiving travellers. The thrifty 
housewife shows you into the best chamber, the walls of which are hung 
round with rude pictures from the Bible ; and brings you her heavy silver 
spoons — an heirloom — to dip the curdled milk from the pan. You have 
oaten cakes, baked some months before ; or bread with anise-seed and 
coriander in it, or perhaps a little pine bark. 

Meanwhile the sturdy husband has brought his horses from the plough, and 
harnessed them to your carriage. Solitary travellers come and go in uncouth 
one-horse chaises. Most of them have pipes in their mouths, and hanging 
around their necks in front, a leather wallet, in which they carry tobacco, and 
the great bank notes of the country, as large as your two hands. You meet, 
also, groups of Dalekarlian peasant women, travelling homeward or townward 
in pursuit of work. They walk barefoot, carrying in their hands their shoes, 
which have high heels under the hollow of the foot, and soles of birch bark. 

Frequent, too, are the village churches, standing by the roadside, each in 
its own little garden of Gethsemane. In the parish register great events are 
doubtless recorded. Some old king was christened or buried in that church ; 
and a little sexton, with a rusty key, shows you the baptismal font, or the 
coffin. In the churchyard are a few flowers, and much green grass ; and daily 
the shadow of the church spire, with its long tapering finger, counts the tombs, 
representing a dial-plate of human life, on which the hours and minutes are 
the graves of men. The stones are flat, and large, and low, and perhaps 
sunken, like the roofs of old houses. On some are armorial bearings ; on 
others only the initials of the poor tenants, with a date, as on the roofs of 
Dutch cottages. They all sleep with their heads to the westward. Each held 
a lighted taper in his hand when he died ; and in his coffin were placed his 
little heart-treasures, and a piece of money for his last journey. Babes that 
came lifeless into the world were carried in the arms of gray-haired old men 
to the only cradle they ever slept in ; and in the shroud of the dead mother 
were laid the little garments of the child, that lived and died in her bosom. 
And over this scene the village pastor looks from his window in the stillness 
of midnight, and says in his heart, " How quietly they rest, all the departed ! " 

Near the churchyard gate stands a poor-box, fastened to a post by iron bands, 
and secured by a padlock, with a sloping wooden roof to keep off the rain. 
If it be Sunday, the peasants sit on the church steps and con their psalm-books. 
Others are coming down the road with their beloved pastor, who talks to them 
of holy things from beneath his broad-brimmed hat. He speaks of fields and 
harvests, and of the parable of the sower that went forth to s,ow. He leads 
them to the Good Shepherd, and to the pleasant pastures of the spirit-land. 



J 



PREFACE. 33 



He is their patriarch, and, like Melchizedek, both priest and king, though he 
has no other throne than the church pulpit. The women carry psalm-books 
in their hands, wrapped in silk handkerchiefs, and listen devoutly to the good 
man's words. But the young men, like Gallio, care for none of these things. 
They are busy counting the plaits in the kirtles of the peasant girls, their 
number being an indication of the wearer's wealth. It may end in a wedding. 

I will endeavor to describe a village wedding in Sweden. It shall be in 
summer time, that there may be flowers, and in a Southern province, that the 
bride may be fair. The early song of the lark and of chanticleer are min- 
ghng in the clear morning air, and the sun, the heavenly bridegroom with golden 
locks, arises in the east, just as our earthly bridegroom, with yellow hair, arises 
in the south. In the yard there is a sound of voices and trampling of hoofs, 
and horses are led forth and saddled. The steed that is to bear the bride- 
groom has a bunch of flowers upon his forehead, and a garland of corn-flowers 
around his neck. Friends from the neighboring farms come riding in, their 
blue cloaks streaming to the wind ; and finally the happy bridegroom, with 
a whip in his hand, and a monstrous nosegay in the breast of his black jacket, 
comes forth from his chamber ; and then to horse and away, towards the vil- 
lage, where the bride already sits and waits. 

Foremost rides the Spokesman, followed by some half dozen village musi- 
cians. Next comes the bridegroom between his two groomsmen, and then 
forty or fifty friends and wedding guests, half of them perhaps with pistols and 
guns in their hands. A kind of baggage-wagon brings up the rear, laden with 
food and drink for these merry pilgrims. At the entrance of every village 
stands a triumphal arch adorned with flowers and ribbons and evergreens ; 
and as they pass beneath it, the wedding guests fire a salute, and the whole 
processio-n stops. And straight from every pocket flies a black-jack, filled 
with punch or brandy. It is passed from hand to hand among the crowd ; 
provisions are brought from the wagon, and after eating and drinking and 
hurrahing, the procession moves forward again, and at length draws near the 
house of the bride. Four heralds ride forward to announce that a knight and 
his attendants are in the neighboring forest, and pray for hospitality. "How 
many are you ?"asks the bride's father. "At least three hundred," is the 
answer ; and to this the host replies, " Yes ; were you seven times as many, 
you should all be welcome; and in token thereof receive this cup." Where- 
upon each herald receives a can of ale ; and soon after the whole jovial com- 
pany comes storming into the farmer's yard, and, riding round the Maypole, 
which stands in the centre, alights amid a grand salute and flourish of music. 

In the hall sits the bride, with a crown upon her head and a tear in her eye, 
like the Virgin Mary in old church paintings. She is dressed in a red bodice 
and kirtle, with loose linen sleeves. There is a gilded belt around her waist ; 
and around her neck strings of golden beads, and a golden chain. On the 
crown rests a wreath of wild roses, and below it another of cypress. Loose 
over her shoulders falls her flaxen hair ; and her blue innocent eyes are fixed 
upon the ground. O thou good soul ! thou hast hard hands, but a soft heart! 
Thou art poor. The very ornaments thou wearest are not thine. They have 
been hired for this great day. Yet art thou rich ; rich in health, rich in hope, 
rich in thy first, young, fervent love. The blessing of Heaven be upon thee ! 
So thinks the parish priest, as he joins together the hands of bride and 
bridegroom, saying in deep^ solemn tones, — "I give thee in marriage this 



34 PREFACE. 



ly bed, I 



damsel, to be thy wedded wife in all honor, and to share the half of thy bed, 
thy lock and key, and every third penny which you two may possess, or may 
inherit, and all the rights which Upland's laws provide, and the holy king 
Erik gave." 

The dinner is now served, and the bride sits between the bridegroom and 
the priest. The Spokesman delivers an oration after the ancient custom of 
his fathers. He interlards it well with quotations from the Bible; and invites 
the Saviour to be present at this marriage feast, as he was at the marriage 
feast in Cana of Galilee. The table is not sparingly set forth. Each makes 
a long arm and the feast goes cheerly on. Punch and brandy pass round be- 
tween the courses, and here and there a pipe is smoked, while waiting for the 
next dish. They sit long at table ; but, as all things must have an end, so 
must a Swedish dinner. Then the dance begins. It is led off by the bride 
and the priest, who perform a solemn minuet together. Not till after midnight 
comes the Last Dance. The girls form a ring around the bride, to keep her 
from the hands of the married women, who endeavor to break through the 
magic circle, and seize their new sister. After long struggling they succeed ; 
and the crown is taken from her head and the jewels from her neck, and her 
bodice is unlaced and her kirtle taken off; and like a vestal virgin clad all in 
white she goes, but it is to her marriage chamber, not to her grave ; and the 
wedding guests follow her with lighted candles in their hands. And this is a 
village bridal. 

Nor must I forget the suddenly changing seasons of the Northern clime. 
There is no long and lingering spring, unfolding leaf and blossom one by one ; 
no long and lingering autumn, pompous with many-colored leaves and the 
glow of Indian summers. But winter and summer are wonderful, and pass 
into each other. The quail has hardly ceased piping in the corn when winter 
from the folds of trailing clouds sows broadcast over the land snow, icicles, 
and rattling hail. The days wane apace. Ere long the sun hardly rises above 
the horizon, or does not rise at all. The moon and the stars shine through 
the day ; only, at noon, they are pale and wan, and in the southern sky a red 
fiery glow, as of sunset, burns along the horizon, and then goes out. And 
pleasantly under the silver moon, and under the silent, solemn stars, ring the 
steel shoes of the skaters on the frozen sea, and voices, and the sound of bells. 

And now the Northern Lights begin to burn, faintly at first, like sunbeams 
playing in the waters of the blue sea. Then a soft crimson glow tinges the 
heavens. There is a blush on the cheek of night. The colors come and go, 
and change from crimson to gold, from gold to crimson. The snow is stained 
with rosy light. Twofold from the zenith, east and west, flames a fiery sword ; 
and a broad band passes athwart the heavens, like a summer sunset. Soft 
purple clouds come sailing over the sky, and through their vapory folds the 
winking stars shine white as silver. With such pomp as this is Merry Christ- 
mas ushered in, though only a single star heralded the first Christmas. And 
in memory of that day the Swedish peasants dance on straw ; and the peasant 
girls throw straws at the timbered roof of the hall, and for every one that 
sticks in a crack shall a groomsman come to their wedding. Merry Christmas 
indeed ! For pious souls there shall be church songs and sermons, but for 
Swedish peasants, brandy and nut-brown ale in wooden bowls; and the great 
Yulecake crowned with a cheese, and garlanded with apples, and upholding 
a three-armed candlestick over the Christmas feast. They may tell tales, | 



PREFACE. 35 



too, of Jons Lundsbracka, and Lunkenfus, and the great Riddar Finke of 
Pingsdaga.i 

And now the glad, leafy midsummer, full of blossoms and the song of 
nightingales, is come ! Saint John has taken the flowers and festival of 
heathen Balder ; and in every village there is a May-pole fifty feet high, with 
wreaths, and roses, and ribbons streaming in the wind, and a noisy weather- 
cock on top, to tell the village whence the wind cometh and whither it goeth. 
The sun does not set till ten o'clock at night ; and the children are at play in 
the streets an hour later. The windows and doors are all open, and you may 
sit and read till midnight without a candle. O how beautiful is the summer 
night, which is not night, but a sunless yet unclouded day, descending upon 
earth with dews, and shadows, and refreshing coolness ! How beautiful the 
long, mild twilight, which like a silver clasp unites to-day with yesterday ! 
How beautiful the silent hour, when Morning and Evening thus sit together, 
hand in hand, beneath the starless sky of midnight ! From the church-tower 
in the public square the bell tolls the hour, with a soft, musical chime ; and 
the watchman, whose watch-tower is the belfry, blows a blast in his horn for 
each stroke of the hammer, and four times, to the four corners of the heavens, 
in a sonorous voice he chaunts, — 

" Ho ! watchman, ho ! 
Twelve is the clock ! 
God keep our town 
From fire and brand 
And hostile hand ! 
Twelve is the clock ! " 

From his swallow's nest in the belfry he can see the sun all night long ; and 
farther north the priest stands at his door in the warm midnight, and lights 
his pipe with a common burning glass. 

I trust that these remarks will not be deemed irrelevant to the poem, but 
will lead to a clearer understanding of it. The translation is literal, perhaps 
to a fault. In no instance have I done the author a wrong by introducing 
into his work any supposed improvements or embellishments of my own. I 
have preserved even the measure ; that inexorable hexameter, in which, it 
must be confessed, the motions of the English Muse are not unlike those of 
a prisoner dancing to the music of his chains ; and perhaps, as Dr. Johnson 
said of the dancing dog, " the wonder is not that she should do it so well, but 
that she should do it at all." 

Esaias Tegner, the author of this poem, was born in the parish of By in 
Warmland, in the year 1782. In 1799 he entered the University of Lund, as 
a student ; and in 1812 was appointed Professor of Greek in that institution. 
In 1824 he became Bishop of Wexio, which office he still holds. He stands 
first among all the poets of Sweden, living or dead. His principal work is 
Frithiofs Saga ; one of the most remarkable poems of the age. This modern 
Scald has written his name in immortal runes. He is the glory and boast of 
Sweden ; a prophet, honored in his own country, and adding one more to the 
list of great names that adorn her history. 

1841. 

1 Titles of Swedish popular tales. 



36 



THE SKELETON IN ARMOR. 



BALLADS. 



THE SKELETON IN ARMOR. 

[The following Ballad was suggested to 
me while riding on the seashore at New- 
port. A year or two previous a skeleton 
had been dug up at Fall River, clad in 
broken and corroded armor; and the 
idea occurred to me of connecting it with 
the Round Tower at Newport, generally 
known hitherto as the Old Wind-Mill, 
though now claimed by the Danes as a 
work of their early ancestors. Professor 
Rafn, in the Memoires de la Societe Royale 
des Antiquaires du Nord for 1838-1839, 
says : — 

" There is no mistaking in this instance 
the style in which the more ancient stone 
edifices of the North were constructed, the 
style which belongs to the Roman or Ante- 
Gothic architecture, and which, especially 
after the time of Charlemagne, diffused it- 
self from Italy over the whole of the West 
and North of Europe, where it continued 
to predominate until the close of the 12th 
century; that style, which some authors 
have, from one of its most striking charac- 
teristics, called the round arch style, the 
same which in England is denominated 
Saxon and sometimes Norman architec- 
ture. 

" On the ancient structure in Newport 
there are no ornaments remaining, which 
might possibly have served to guide us in 
assigning the probable date of its erection. 
That no vestige whatever is found of the 
pointed arch, nor any approximation to it, 
is indicative of an earlier rather than of a 
later period. From such characteristics as 
remain, however, we can scarcely form any 
other inference than one, in which I am per- 
suaded that all, who are familiar with Old 
Northern architecture, will concur, THAT 
THIS BUILDING WAS ERECTED AT A PE- 
RIOD DECIDEDLY NOT LATER THAN THE 
I2TH CENTURY. This remark applies, of 
course, to the original building only, and 
not to the alterations that it subsequently 
received ; for there are several such altera- 
tions in the upper part of the building which 
cannot be mistaken, and which were most 
likely occasioned by its being adapted in 
modern times to various uses, for example, 
as the substructure of a windmill, and lat- 
terly as a hay magazine. To the same 



times may be referred the windows, the 
fireplace, and the apertures made above 
the columns. That this building could not 
have been erected for a windmill, is what an 
architect will easily discern." 

I will not enter into a discussion of the 
point. It is sufficiently well established for 
a purpose of a ballad ; though doubtless 
many an honest citizen of Newport, who 
has passed his days within, sight of the 
Round Tower, will be ready to exclaim with 
Sancho, " God bless me ! did I not warn 
you to have a care of what you were doing, 
for that it was nothing but a windmill; and 
nobody could mistake it, but one who had 
the like in his head."] 

" Speak ! speak ! thou fearful guest ! 
Who, with thy hollow breast 
Still in rude armor drest, 

Comest to daunt me ! 
Wrapt not in Eastern balms, 
But with thy fieshless palms 
Stretched, as if asking alms, 

Why dost thou haunt me ? " 

Then, from those cavernous eyes 
Pale flashes seemed to rise. 
As when the Northern skies 

Gleam in December ; 
And, like the water's flow 
Under December's snow, 
Came a dull voice of woe 

From the heart's chamber. 

" I ^vas a Viking old ! 

deeds, though manifold, 

o Skald in song has told, 

No Saga taught thee ! 
Take heed, that in thy verse 
Thou dost the tale rehearse. 
Else dread a dead man's curse ; 

For this I sought thee. 

" Far in the Northern Land, 
By the wild Baltic's strand, 
I, with my childish hand, 
Tamed the ger-falcon ; 



THE SKELETON IN ARMOR. 



37 



And, with my skates fast-bound, 


" Bright in her father's hall 


Skimmed the half-frozen Sound, 


Shields gleamed upon the wall, 


That the poor whimpering hound 


Loud sang the minstrels all, 


Trembled to walk on. 


Chaunting his glory ; 




WhenofoldHildebrand 


" Oft to his frozen lair 


I asked his daughter's hand, 


Tracked I the grisly bear. 


Mute did the minstrels stand 


While from my path the hare 


To hear my story. 


Fled like a shadow ; 




Oft through the forest dark 


"While the brown ale he quaffed. 


Followed the were-wolf's bark, 


Loud then the champion laughed. 


Until the soaring lark 


And as the wind-gusts waft 


Sang from the meadow. 


The sea-foam brightly, 




So the loud laugh of scorn. 


" But when I older grew, 


Out of those lips unshorn. 


Joining a corsair's crew, 


From the deep drinking-horn 


O'er the dark sea I tlew 


Blew the foam lightly. 


With the marauders. 




Wild was the life we led ; 


"She was a Prince's child. 


Many the souls that sped. 


I but a Viking wild, 


Many the hearts that bled, 


And though she blushed and smiled, 


By our stern orders. 


I was discarded ! 




Should not the dove so white 


" Many a wassail-bout 


Follow the sea-mew's flight. 


Wore the long Winter out ; 


Why did they leave that night 


Often our midnight shout 


Her nest unguarded ? 


Set the cocks crowing, 




As we the Berserk's tale 


" Scarce had I put to sea, 


Measured in cups of ale, 


Bearing the maid with me, — 


Draining the oaken pail. 


Fairest of all was she 


Filled to overflowing. 


Among the Norsemen ! — 




When on the white sea-strand. 


" Once as I told in glee 


Waving his armed hand. 


Tales of the stormy sea, 


Saw we old Hildebrand, 


Soft eyes did gaze on me. 


With twenty horsemen. 


Burning yet tender ; 




And as the white stars shine 


" Then launched they to the blast, 


On the dark Norway pine, ' ' 


Bent like a reed each mast. 


On that dark heart of mine ;. _ ! 


Yet we were gaining fast, 


Fell their soft splendor. 


When the wind failed us ; 




And with a sudden flaw 


" I wooed the blue-eyed maid, 


Come round the gusty Skaw, 


Yielding, yet half afraid, 


So that our foe we saw 


And in the forest's shade 


Laugh as he hailed us. 


Our vows were plighted. 




Under its loosened vest 


" And as to catch the gale 


Fluttered her little breast, 


Round veered the flapping sail. 


Like birds within their nest 


Death ! was the helmsman's hail 


By the hawk frighted. 


Death without quarter ! 



38 



THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 



Mid-ships with iron keel 
Struck we her ribs of steel ; 
Down her black hulk did reel 
Through the black water ! 

" As with his wings aslant, 
Sails the fierce cormorant, 
Seeking some rocky haunt, 

With his prey laden, 
So toward the open main. 
Beating to sea again, 
Through the wild hurricane. 

Bore I the maiden. 

" Three weeks we westward bore, 
And when the storm was o'er, 
Cloud-like we saw the shore 

Stretching to lee- ward ; 
There for my lady's bower 
Built I the lofty tower, 
Which, to this very hour. 

Stands looking sea-ward. 

"There lived we many years ; 
Time dried the maiden's tears ; 
She had forgot her fears. 

She was a mother ; 
Death closed her mild blue eyes, 
Under that tower she lies ; 
Ne'er shall the sun arise 

On such another ! 

" Still grew my bosom then. 
Still as a stagnant fen ! 
Hateful to me were men. 

The sun-light hateful. 
In the vast forest here, 
Clad in my warlike gear, 
Fell I upon my spear, 

O, death was grateful ! 

" Thus, seamed with many scars 
Bursting these prison bars. 
Up to its native stars 
My soul ascended ! 



There from the flowing bowl 
Deep drinks the warrior's soul, 
Skoal! to the Northland ! skoal! ''^'^ 
— Thus the tale ended. 



THE WRECK OF THE 
HESPERUS. 

It was the schooner Hesperus, 
That sailed the wintry sea ; 

And the skipper had taken his little 
daughter, 
To bear him company. 

Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax. 
Her cheeks like the dawn of day, 

And her bosom white as the haw- 
thorn buds. 
That ope in the month of May. 

The skipper he stood beside the helm, 
His pipe was in his mouth. 

And he watched how the veering 
flaw did blow 
The smoke now West, now South. 

Then up and spake an old Sailor, 
Had sailed the Spanish Main, 

"I pray thee, put into yonder port, 
For I fear a hurricane. 

" Last night, the moon had a golden 

ring,' 

And to-night no moon we see !" 

The skipper, he blew a whiff" from his 

pipe, 

And a scornful laugh laughed he. 

Colder and louder blew the wind, 
A gale from the Northeast ; 

The snow fell hissing in the brine, 
And the billows frothed like yeast. 



1 In Scandinavia this is the ciistomary salutation when drinking a health. I have 
slightly changed the orthography of the word in order to preserve the correct pronuncia- 
tion. 



THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 



39 



Down came the storm, and smote 
amain, 
The vessel in its strength ; 
She shuddered and paused, like a 
frighted steed, 
Then leaped her cable's length. 

" Come hither ! come hither ! my little 
daughter. 

And do not tremble so ; 
For I can weather the roughest gale, 

That ever wind did blow." 

He wrapped her warm in his seaman's 
coat 

Against the stinging blast ; 
He cut a rope from a broken spar, 

And bound her to the mast. 

*' O father ! I hear the church-bells 
ring, 
O say, what may it be ? " 
" 'T is a fog-bell on a rock-bound 
coast ! " — 
And he steered for the open sea. 

" O father ! I hear the sound of guns, 

O say, what may it be ?" 
" Some ship in distress, that cannot 
live 

In such an angry sea ! " 

" O father ! I see a gleaming light, 

O say, what may it be ? " 
But the father answered never a word, 

A frozen corpse was he. 

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, 
With his face turned to the skies. 

The lantern gleamed through the 
gleaming snow 
On his fixed and glassy eyes. 

Then the maiden clasped her hands 
and prayed 
That saved she might be ; 
And she thought of Christ, who 
stilled the wave, 
On the Lake of Galilee. 



And fast through the midnight dark 

and drear, 

Through the whistling sleet and 

snow, 

Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept 

Towards the reef of Norman's Woe. 

And ever the fitful gusts between, 
A sound came frorti the land ; 

It was the sound of the trampling surf. 
On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. 

The breakers were right beneath her 
bows, 

She drifted a dreary wreck. 
And a whooping billow swept the crew 

Like icicles from her deck. 

She struck where the white and fleecy 
waves 
Looked soft as carded wool, 
But the cruel rocks, they gored her 
side 
Like the horns of an angry bull. 

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in 
ice. 
With the masts went by the board ; 
Like a vessel of glass, she stove and 
sank. 
Ho ! ho ! the breakers roared ! 

At daybreak on the bleak sea-beach, 
A fisherman stood aghast, 

To see the form of a maiden fair, 
Lashed close to a drifting mast. 

The salt-sea was frozen on her breast, 
The salt tears in her eyes ; 

And he saw her hair, like the brown 
sea-weed, 
On the billows fall and rise. 

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, 
In the midnight and the snow ! 

Christ save us all from a death like 
this, 
On the reef of Norman's Woe ! 



40 



THE LUCK OF EDENHALL. 



THE LUCK OF EDENHALL. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. 

[The tradition, upon which this ballad is 
founded, and the "shards of the Luck of 
Edenhall," still exist in England. The 
goblet is in the possession of Sir Chris- 
topher Musgrave, Bart., of Eden Hall, Cum- 
berland ; and is not so entirely shattered 
as the ballad leaves it,] 

Of Edenhall, the youthful Lord 
Bids sound the festal trumpefs call ; 
He rises at the banquet board, 
And cries, 'mid the drunken revellers 

all, 
" Now bring me the Luck of Eden- 
hall ! " 

The butler hears the words with pain, 
The house's oldest seneschal, 
Takes slow from its silken cloth again 
The drinking glass of crystal tall ; 
They call it The Luck of Edenhall. 

Then said the Lord : " This glass to 

praise. 
Fill with red wine from Portugal ! " 
The gray-beard with trembling hand 

obeys ; 
A purple light shines over all, 
It beams from the Luck of Edenhall. 



Then speaks the Lord, and waves it 

Hght, 
" This glass of flashing crystal tall 
Gave to my sires the Fountain-Sprite ; 
She wrote in it : If this glass doth fall, 
Farewell then, O Luck of Edenhall I 

" 'T was right a goblet the Fate 
should be 

Of the joyous race of Edenhall ! 

Deep draughts drink we right will- 
ingly ; 

And willingly ring, with merry call, 

Kling ! klang ! to the Luck of Eden- 
hall!" 



First rings it deep, and full, and mild, 
Like to the song of a nightingale ; 
Then like the roar of a torrent wild ; 
Then mutters at last like the thunder's 

fall. 
The glorious Luck of Edenhall. 

" For its keeper takes a race of might, 
The fragile goblet of crystal tall ; 
It has lasted longer than is right ; 
Kling ! klang ! — with a harder blow 

than all 
Will I try the Luck of Edenhall ! " 

As the goblet ringing flies apart, 
Suddenly cracks the vaulted hall ; 
And through the rift, the wild flames 

start ; 
The guests in dust are scattered all, 
With the breaking Luck of Edenhall ! 

In storms the foe, with fire and sword ; 
He in the night had scaled the wall, 
Slain by the sword lies the youthful 

Lord, 
But holds in his hand the crystal tall, 
The shattered Luck of Edenhall. 



the butler gropes 



On the morrow 

alone. 

The gray-beard in the desert hall, 
He seeks his Lord's burnt skeleton, 
He seeks in the dismal ruin's fall 
The shards of the Luck of Edenhall. 

" The stone wall," saith he, " doth fall 

aside, 
Down must the stately columns fall ; 
Glass is this earth's Luck and Pride ; 
In atoms shall fall this earthly ball 
One day like the Luck of Edenhall ! " 



THE ELECTED KNIGHT. 

FROM THE DANISH. 

[The following strange and somewhat 
mystical ballad is from Nyerup and Rah- 
bek's Danske Fiser of the Middle Ages. It 



THE ELECTED KNIGHT. 



41 



seems to refer to the first preaching of 
Cnristianity in the North, and to the institu- 
tion of Knight-Ei rantry. The three maidens 
I suppose to be Faith, Hope, and Charity. 
The irregularities of the original have been 
carefully preserved in the translation.] 

Sir Oluf he rideth over the plain, 
Full seven miles broad and seven 
miles wide, 
But never, ah never can meet with the 
man 
A tilt with him dare ride. 

He saw under the hill-side 
A Knight full well equipped ; 

His steed was black, his helm was 
barred ; 
He was riding at full speed. 

He wore upon his spurs 
Twelve little golden birds ; 

Anon he spurred his steed with a 
clang, 
And there sat all the birds and sang. 

He wore upon his mail 

Twelve httle golden wheels, 

Anon in eddies the wild wind blew. 
And round and round the wheels 
they flew. 

He wore before his breast 

A lance that was poised in rest ; 

And it was sharper than diamond- 
stone. 
It made Sir Olufs heart to groan. 

He wore upon his helm, 
A wreath of ruddy gold ; 



And that gave him the Maidens Three, 
The youngest was fair to behold. 

Sir Oluf questioned the Knight eft- 
soon 
If he were come from heaven down ; 
"Art thou Christ of Heaven," quoth 
he, 
" So will I yield me unto thee." 

" I am not Christ the Great, 
Thou shalt not yield thee yet ; 

I am an Unknown Knight, 

Three modest Maidens have me 
bedight." 

" Art thou a Knight elected. 

And have three Maidens thee be- 
dight ; 

So shalt thou ride a tilt this day, 
For all the Maidens^ honor ! " 

The first tilt they together rode, 
They put their steeds to the test ; 

The second tilt they together rode, 
They proved their manhood best. 

The third tilt they together rode, 
Neither of them would yield ; 

The fourth tilt they together rode, 
They both fell on the field. 

Now lie the lords upon the plain, 
And their blood runs unto death ; 

Now sit the Maidens in the high 
tower, 
The youngest sorrows till death. 



42 



THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER. 



THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER. 



FROM THE SWEDISH OF BISHOP TEGNER. 



THE CHILDREN OF THE 
LORD'S SUPPER. 

Pentecost, day of rejoicing, had 
come. The church of the village 

Gleaming stood in the morning's 
sheen. On the spire of the bel- 
fry, 

Tipped with a vane of metal, the 
friendly flames of the Spring-sun 

Glanced like the tongues of fire, be- 
held by Apostles aforetime. 

Clear was the heaven and blue, and 
May, with her cap crowned with 
roses. 

Stood in her holiday dress in the fields, 
and the wind and the brooklet 

Murmured gladness and peace, God's- 
peace ! with lips rosy-tinted ; 

Whispered the race of the flowers, 
and merry on balancing branches 

Birds were singing their carol, a jubi- 
lant hymn to the Highest. 

Swept and clean was the churchyard. 
Adorned like a leaf-woven arbor 

Stood its old-fashioned gate ; and 
within upon each cross of iron 

Hung was a fragrant garland, new 
twined by the hands of aiTection. 

Even the dial, that stood on a hillock 
among the departed, 

(There full a hundred years had it 
stood,) was embeUished with 
blossoms. 

Like to the patriarch hoary, the sage 
of his kith and the hamlet. 

Who on his birthday is crowned by 
children and children's children. 

So stood the ancient prophet, and 
mute with his pencil of iron 



Marked on the tablet of stone, and 
measured the time and its 
changes. 

While all around at his feet, an eter- 
nity slumbered in quiet. 

Also the church within was adorned, 
for this was the season 

When the young, their parents' hope, 
and the loved ones of heaven. 

Should at the foot of the altar renew 
the vows of their baptism. 

Therefore each nook and corner was 
swept and cleaned, and the dust 
was 

Blown from the walls and ceiling, and 
from the oil-painted benches. 

There stood the church like a garden ; 
the Feast of the Leafy Pavilions ^ 

Saw we in living presentment. From 
noble arms on the church wall 

Grew forth a cluster of leaves, and 
the preacher's pulpit of oak-wood 

Budded once more anew, as afore- 
time the rod before Aaron. 

Wreathed thereon was the Bible with 
leaves, and the dove, washed with 
silver, 

Under its canopy fastened, had on it 
a necklace of wind-fiowers. 

But in front of the choir, round the 
altar piece painted by Horberg,''^ 

Crept a garland gigantic ; and bright- 
curling tresses of angels 

Peeped, like the sun from a cloud, 
from out of the shadowy leaf- 
work. 

Likewise the lustre of brass, new- 
polished, blinked from the ceil- 



And for lights there were lilies 
Pentecost set in the sockets. 



of 



iThe Feast of the Tabernacles; in Swedish, LofhydaoJidgtiden, the Leaf-huts'-high-tide. 
2 The peasant-painter of Sweden. He is known chiefly by his altar pieces in the village 
churches. 



THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER. 



43 



Loud rang the bells already; the 

thronging crowd was assembled 
Far from valleys and hills, to list to 

the holy preaching. 
Hark ! then roll forth at once the 

mighty tones from the organ, 
Hover like voices from God, aloft like 

invisible spirits. 
Like as Elias in heaven, when he cast 

off from him his mantle, 
Even so cast off the soul its garments 

of earth ; and with one voice 
Chimed in the congregation, and sang 

an anthem immortal 
Of the sublime Wallin,i of David's 

harp in the North-land 
Tuned to the choral of Luther ; the 

song on its powerful pinions 
Took every living soul, and lifted it 

gently to heaven, 
And every face did shine like the 

Holy One's face upon Tabor. 
Lo ! there entered then into the 

church the Reverend Teacher. 
Father he hight and he was in the 

parish ; a Christianly plainness 
Clothed from his head to his feet the 

old man of seventy winters. 
Friendly was he to behold, and glad 

as the heralding angel 
Walked he among the crowds, but 

still a contemplative grandeur 
Lay on his forehead as clear, as on 

moss-covered gravestone a sun- 
beam. 
As in his inspiration (an evening twi- 
light that faintly 
Gleams in the human soul, even now, 

from the day of creation) 
Th' Artist, the friend of heaven, im- 
agines St. John when in Patmos, 
Gray, with his eyes uplifted to heaven, 

so seemed then the old man ; 
Such was the glance of his eye, and 

such were his tresses of silver. 
All the congregation arose in the pews 

that were numbered. 



But with a cordial look, to the right 
and the left hand, the old man 

Nodding all hail and peace, disap- 
peared in the innermost chancel. 

Simply and solemnly now proceeded 

the Christian service. 
Singing and prayer, and at last an 

ardent discourse from the old man. 
Many a moving word and warning, 

that out of the heart came. 
Fell like the dew of the morning, like 

manna on those in the desert. 
Afterwards, when all was finished, the 

Teacher reentered the chancel. 
Followed therein by the young. On 

the right-hand the boys had their 

places, 
Delicate figures, with close-curling hair 

and cheeks rosy-blooming. 
But on the left-hand of these, there 

stood the tremulous lilies, 
Tinged with the blushing light of the 

morning, the diffident maidens, — 
Folding their hands in prayer, and 

their eyes cast down on the pave- 
ment. 
Now came, with question and answer, 

the catechism. In the beginning 
Answered the children with troubled 

and faltering voice, but the old 

man's 
Glances of kindness encouraged them 

soon, and the doctrines eternal 
Flowed, like the waters of fountains, 

so clear from lips unpolluted. 
Whene'er the answer was closed, and 

as oft as they named the Re- 
deemer, 
Lowly louted the boys, and lowly the 

maidens all courtesied. 
Friendly the Teacher stood, like an 

angel of light there among them, 
And to the children explained he the 

holy, the highest, in few words. 
Thorough, yet simple and clear, for 

sublimity always is simple, 



1 A distinguished pulpit-orator and poet. He is particularly remarkable for the beauty 
and sublimity of his psalms. 



44 



THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER. 



Both in sermon and song, a child can 
seize on its meaning. 

Even as the green-growing bud is un- 
folded when Spring-tide ap- 
proaches, 

Leaf by leaf is developed, and, w^armed 
by the radiant sunshine, 

Blushes with purple and gold, till at 
last the perfected blossom 

Opens its odorous chalice, and rocks 
with its crown in the breezes. 

So was unfolded here the Christian 
lore of salvation. 

Line by line from the soul of child- 
hood. The fathers and mothers 

Stood behind them in tears, and were 
glad at each well-worded answer. 

Now went the old man up to the 
altar ; — and straightway trans- 
figured 

(So did it seem unto me) was then 
the affectionate Teacher. 

Like the Lord's Prophet sublime, and 
awful as Death and as Judgment 

Stood he, the God-commissioned, 
the soul-searcher, earthward de- 
scending. 

Glances, sharp as a sword, into hearts 
that to him were transparent 

Shot he ; his voice was deep, was low 
like the thunder afar off. 

So on a sudden transfigured he stood 
there, he spake and he questioned. 

" This is the faith of the Fathers, 
the faith the Apostles delivered. 

This is moreover the faith whereunto 
I baptized you, while still ye 

Lay on your mothers' breasts, and 
nearer the portals of heaven. 

Slumbering received you then the 
Holy Church in its bosom ; 

Wakened from sleep are ye now, and 
the light in its radiant splendor 

Rains from the heaven downward ; 
— to-day on the threshold of 
childhood 

Kindly she frees you again, to ex- 
amine and make your election, 



For she knows naught of compulsion, 

and only conviction desireth. 
This is the hour of your trial, the 

turning-point of existence, 
Seed for the coming days ; without 

revocation departeth 
Now from your lips the confession. 

Bethink ye, before ye make 

answer ! 
Think not, O think not with guile to 

deceive the questioning Teacher. 
Sharp is his eye to-day, and a curse 

ever rests upon falsehood. 
Enter not with a lie on Life's journey ; 

the multitude hears you. 
Brothers and sisters and parents, 

what dear upon earth is and holy 
Standeth before your sight as a wit- 
ness ; the Judge everlasting 
Looks from the sun down upon you, 

and angels in waiting beside him 
Grave your confession in letters of 

fire, upon tablets eternal. 
Thus then, — believe ye in God, in 

the Father who this world cre- 
ated ? 
Him who redeemed it, the Son, and 

the Spirit where both are united ? 
Will ye promise me here, (a holy 

promise !) to cherish 
God more than all things earthly, and 

every man as a brother ? 
Will ye promise me here, to confirm 

your faith by your living, 
Th' heavenly faith of affection ! to 

hope, to forgive, and to suffer, 
Be what it may your condition, and 

walk before God in uprightness ? 
Will ye promise me this before God 

and man ?" — With a clear voice 
Answered the young men Yes ! and 

Yes ! with lips softly-breathing 
Answered the maidens eke. Then 

dissolved from the brow of the 

Teacher 
Clouds with the thunders therein, 

and he spake in accents more 

gentle. 
Soft as the evening's breath, as harps 

by Babylon's rivers. 



THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER. 



45 



" Hail, then, hail to you all ! To 

the heirdom of heaven be ye 

welcome ! 
Children no more from this day, but 

by covenant brothers and sisters ! 
Yet, — for what reason not children ? 

Of such is the kingdom of heaven. 
Here upon earth an assemblage of 

children, in heaven one father. 
Ruling them all as his household, — 

forgiving in turn and chastising, 
That is of human life a picture, as 

Scripture has taught us. 
Blessed are the pure before God ! 

Upon purity and upon virtue 
Resteth the Christian Faith ; she her- 
self from on high is descended. 
Strong as a man and pure as a child, 

is the sum of the doctrine. 
Which the Divine One taught, and 

suffered and died on the cross 

for. 
O ! as ye wander this day from child- 
hood's sacred asylum 
Downward and ever downward, and 

deeper in Age's chill valley, 
O! how soon will ye come, — too 

soon I — and long to turn backward 
Up to its hill-tops again, to the sun- 
illumined, where Judgment 
Stood like a father before you, and 

Pardon, clad like a mother. 
Gave you her hand to kiss, and the 

loving heart was forgiven, 
Life was a play and your hands 

grasped after the roses of heaven ! 
Seventy years have I lived already ; 

the father eternal 
Gave me gladness and care ; but the 

loveliest hours of existence. 
When I have steadfastly gazed in 

their eyes, I have instantly known 

them, 
Known them all again; — they were 

my childhood's acquaintance. 
Therefore take them henceforth, as 

guides in the paths of existence, 
Prayer, with her eyes raised to heaven, 

and Innocence, bride of man's 

childhood. 



Innocence, child beloved, is a guest 
from the world of the blessed. 

Beautiful, and in her hand a lily ; on 
life's roaring billows 

Swings she in safety, she heedeth them 
not, in the ship she is sleeping. 

Calmly she gazes around in the tur- 
moil of men ; in the desert 

Angels descend and minister unto 
her ; she herself knoweth 

Naught of her glorious attendance ; 
but follows faithful and humble. 

Follows so long as she may her friend ; 
O do not reject her. 

For she cometh from God and she 
holdeth the keys of the heav- 
ens. — 

Prayer is Innocence' friend ; and will- 
ingly flyeth incessant 

'Twixt the earth and the sky, the car- 
rier-pigeon of heaven. 

Son of Eternity, fettered in Time, and 
an exile, the Spirit 

Tugs at his chains evermore, and 
struggles like flames ever up- 
ward. 

Still he recalls with emotion his 
father's manifold mansions. 

Thinks of the land of his fathers, 
where blossomed more freshly 
the flowers, 

Shone a more beautiful sun, and he 
played with the winged angels. 

Then grows the earth too narrow, too 
close ; and homesick for heaven 

Longs the wanderer again ; and the 
Spirit's longings are worship ; 

Worship is called his most beautiful 
hour, and its tongue is entreaty. 

Ah ! when the infinite burden of life 
descendeth upon us, 

Crushes to earth our hope, and, under 
the earth, in the graveyard, — 

Then it is good to pray unto God; 
for his sorrowing children 

Turns he ne'er from his door, but 
he heals and helps and consoles 
them. 

Yet it is better to pray when all things 
are prosperous with us, 



46 



THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER. 



Pray in fortunate days, for life's most 

beautiful Fortune 
Kneels down before the EternaPs 

throne ; and, with hands inter- 
folded, 
Praises thankful and moved the only 

giver of blessings. 
Or do ye know, ye children, one 

blessing that comes not from 

Heaven? 
What has mankind forsooth, the poor! 

that it has not received ? 
Therefore, fall in the dust and pray! 

The seraphs adoring 
Cover with pinions six their face in 

the glory of him who 
Hung his masonry pendant on naught, 

when the world he created. 
Earth declareth his might, and the 

firmament uttereth his glory. 
Races blossom and die, and stars fall 

downward from heaven, 
Downward like withered leaves ; at 

the last stroke of midnight, mil- 
lenniums 
Lay themselves down at his feet, and 

he sees them, but counts them as 

nothing. 
Who shall stand in his presence ? 

The wrath of the judge is terrific. 
Casting the insolent down at a glance. 

When he speaks in his anger 
Hillocks skip like the kid, and moun- 
tains leap like the roebuck. 
Yet, — why are ye afraid, ye children ? 

This awful avenger, 
Ah ! is a merciful God ! God's voice 

was not in the earthquake. 
Not in the fire, nor the storm, but it 

was in the whispering breezes. 
Love is the root of creation ; God's 

essence ; worlds without number 
Lie in his bosom like children ; he 

made them for this purpose only. 
Only to love and to be loved again, he 

breathed forth his spirit 
Into the slumbering dust, and upright 

standing, it laid its 
Pland on its heart, and felt it was 

warm with a flame out of heaven. 



Quench, O quench not that flame ! It 

is the breath of your being. 
Love is life, but hatred is death. Not 

father, nor mother 
Loved you, as God has loved you ; 

for 't was that you may be happy 
Gave he his only son. When he 

bowed down his head in the 

death-hour 
Solemnized Love its triumph ; the 

sacrifice then was completed. 
Lo ! then was rent on a sudden the 

veil of the temple, dividing 
Earth and heaven apart, and the dead 

from their sepulchres rising 
Whispered with pallid lips and low 

in the ears of each other 
Th' answer, but dreamed of before, to 

creation's enigma, — Atonement! 
Depths of Love are Atonement's 

depths, for Love is Atonement. 
Therefore, child of mortality, love 

thou the merciful Father ; 
Wish what the Holy One wishes, and 

not from fear, but affection ; 
Fear is the virtue of slaves; but the 

heart that loveth is willing ; 
Perfect was before God, and perfect is 

Love, and Love only. 
Lovest thou God as thou oughtest, 

then lovest thou likewise thy 

brethren ; • 

One is the sun in heaven, and one, 

only one, is Love also. 
Bears not each human figure the god- 
like stamp on his forehead? 
Readest thou not in his face thine 

origin ? Is he not sailing 
Lost like thyself on an ocean un- 
known, and is he not guided 
By the same stars that guide thee ? 
Why shouldst thou hate then thy 

brother ? 
Hateth he thee, forgive ! For 't is 

sweet to stammer one letter 
Of the Eternal's language ; — on earth 

it is called Forgiveness ! 
Knowest thou Him, who forgave, with 

the crown of thorns round his 

temples ? 



THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER. 



47 



Earnestly prayed for his foes, for his 
murderers ? Say, dost thou 
know him ? 

Ah ! thou confessest his name, so fol- 
low likewise his example, 

Think of thy brother no ill, but throw 
a veil over his failings, 

Guide the erring aright ; for the good, 
the heavenly shepherd 

Took the lost lamb in his arms, and 
bore it back to its mother. 

This is the fruit of Love, and it is by 
its fruits that we know it. 

Love is the creature's welfare, with 
God ; but Love among mortals 

Is but an endless sigh ! He longs, 
and endures, and stands wait- 
ing, 

Suffers and yet rejoices, and smiles 
with tears on his eyelids. 

Hope, — so is called upon earth, his 
recompense, — Hope, the be- 
friending, 

Does what she can, for she points 
evermore up to heaven, and faith- 
ful 

Plunges her anchor's peak in the 
depths of the grave, and beneath 
it 

Paints a more beautiful world, a dim, 
but a sweet play of shadows ! 

Races, better than we, have leaned on 
her wavering promise, 

Having naught else but Hope. Then 
praise we our Father in heaven. 

Him, who has given us more ; for to 
us has Hope been transfigured, 

Groping no longer in night; she is 
Faith, she is living assurance. 

Faith is enhghtened Hope ; she is 
light, is the eye of aiTection, 

Dreams of the longing interprets, and 
carves their visions in marble. 

Faith is the sun of life; and her 
countenance shines like the He- 
brew's, 

For she has looked upon God ; the 
heaven on its stable foundation 

Draws she with chains down to earth, 
and the New Jerusalem sinketh 



Splendid with portals twelve in golden 

vapors descending. 
There enraptured she wanders, and 

looks at the figures majestic, 
Fears not the winged crowd, in the 

midst of them all is her home- 
stead. 
Therefore love and believe ; for works 

will follow spontaneous 
Even as day does the sun ; the Right 

from the Good is an offspring, 
Love in a bodily shape ; and Chris- 
tian works are no more than 
Animate Love and faith, as flowers are 

the animate spring-tide. 
Works do follow us all unto God ; 

there stand and bear witness 
Not what they seemed, — but what 

they were only. Blessed is he who 
Hears their confession secure ; they 

are mute upon earth until death's 

hand 
Opens the mouth of the silent. Ye 

children, does Death e'er alarm 

you ? 
Death is the brother of Love, twin- 
brother is he, and is only 
More austere to behold. With a kiss 

upon lips that are fading 
Takes he the soul and departs, and 

rocked in the arms of aiTection, 
Places the ransomed child, new born, 

'fore the face of its father. 
Sounds of his coming already I hear, 

— see dimly his pinions, 
Swart as the night, but with stars 

strewn upon them ! I fear not 

before him. 
Death is only release, and in mercy 

is mute. On his bosom 
Freer breathes, in its coolness, my 

breast ; and face to face standing 
Look I on God as he is, a sun unpol- 
luted by vapors ; 
Look on the light of the ages I loved, 

the spirits majestic. 
Nobler, better than I ; they stand by 

the throne all transfigured, 
Vested in white, and with harps of 

gold, and are singing an anthem, 



THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER. 



Writ in the climate of heaven, in the 
language spoken by angels. 

You, in like manner, ye children be- 
loved, he one day shall gather. 

Never forgets he the weary ; — then 
welcome, ye loved ones, here- 
after ! 

Meanwhile forget not the keeping of 
vows, forget not the promise, 

Wander from holiness onward to holi- 
ness ; earth ^hall ye heed not ; 

Earth is but dust and heaven is light ; 
I have pledged you to heaven. 

God of the Universe, hear me ! thou 
fountain of Love everlasting. 

Hark to the voice of thy servant ! I 
send up my prayer to thy heaven ! 

Let me hereafter not miss at thy 
throne one spirit of all these, 

Whom thou hast given me here ! 
I have loved them all like a 
father. 

May they bear witness for me, that I 
taught them the way of salvation. 

Faithful, so far as I knew of thy word ; 
again may they know me. 

Fall on their Teacher's breast, and be- 
fore thy face may I place them, 

Pure as they now are, but only more 
tried, and exclaiming with glad- 
ness. 

Father, lo ! I am here, and the chil- 
dren, whom thou hast given me ! " 

Weeping he spake in these words ; 

and now at the beck of the old 

man 
Knee against knee they knitted a 

wreath round the altar's en- 
closure. 
Kneeling he read then the prayers 

of the consecration, and softly 
With him the children read ; at the 

close, with tremulous accents, 
Asked he the peace of heaven, a 

benediction upon them. 
Now should have ended his task for 

the day ; the following Sunday 
Was for the young appointed to eat 

of the Lord's holy Supper. 



Sudden, as struck from the clouds, 
stood the Teacher silent and laid 
his 

Hand on his forehead, and cast his 
looks upward; while thoughts 
high and holy 

Flew through the midst of his soul, 
and his eyes glanced with won- 
derful brightness. 

'' On the next Sunday, who knows ! 
perhaps I shall rest in the grave- 
yard ! 

Some one perhaps of yourselves, a 
lily broken untimely. 

Bow down his head to the earth ; why 
delay I ? the hour is accom- 
plished. 

Warm is the heart ; — I will so ! for 
to-day grows the harvest ^of 
heaven. 

What I began accomplish I now ; for 
what failing therein is 

I, the old man, will answer to God 
and the reverend father. 

Say to me only, ye children, ye deni- 
zens new-come in heaven, 

Are ye ready this day to eat of the 
bread of Atonement ? 

What it denoteth, that know ye full 
well, I have told it you often. 

Of the new covenant a symbol it is, . 
of Atonement a token, 

Stablished between earth and heaven. 
Man by his sins and transgres- 
sions 

Far has wandered from God, from 
his essence. 'T was in the be- 
ginning 

Fast by the Tree of Knowledge he 
fell, and it hangs its crown o'er 
the 

Fall to this day; in the Thought is 
the Fall ; in the Heart the Atone- 
ment. 

Infinite is the Fall, the Atonement 
infinite likewise. 

See ! behind me, as far as the old 
man remembers, and forward, 

Far as Hope in her flight can reach 
with her wearied pinions, 



THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER. 



49 



Sin and Atonement incessant go 
through the hfetime of mortals. 

Brought forth is sin full-grown ; but 
Atonement sleeps in our bosoms 

Still as the cradled babe ; and dreams 
of heaven and of angels, 

Cannot awake to sensation ; is like 
the tones in the harp's strings, 

Spirits imprisoned, that wait ever- 
more the deliverer's finger. 

Therefore, ye children beloved, de- 
scended the Prince of Atone- 
ment, 

Woke the slumberer from sleep, and 
she stands now with eyes all re- 
splendent, 

Bright as the vault of the sky, and 
battles with Sin and o'ercomes 
her. 

Downward to earth he came and 
transfigured, thence reascended, 

Not from the heart in like wise, for 
there he still lives in the Spirit, 

Loves and atones evermore. So long 
as Time is, is Atonement. 

Therefore with reverence receive this 
day her visible token. 

Tokens are dead if the things do not 
live. The light everlasting 

Unto the blind man is not, but is born 
of the eye that has vision. 

Neither in bread nor in wine, but in 
the heart that is hallowed 

Lieth forgiveness enshrined ; the in- 
tention alone of amendment 

Fruits of the earth ennobles to 
heavenly things, and removes 
all 

Sin and the guerdon of sin. Only 
Love with his arms wide ex- 
tended, 

Penitence weeping and praying ; the 
Will that is tried, and whose gold 
flows 

Purified forth from the flames ; in a 
word, mankind by Atonement 

Breaketh Atonement's bread, and 
drinketh Atonement's wine-cup. 

But he who cometh up hither, un- 
worthy, with hate in his bosom, 



Scoffing at men and at God, is guilty 
of Christ's blessed body. 

And the Redeemer's blood ! To him- 
self he eateth and drinketh 

Death and doom ! And from this, pre- 
serve us, thou heavenly Father ! 

Are ye ready, ye children, to eat of 
the bread of Atonement ? " 

Thus with emotion he asked, and to- 
gether answered the children 

Yes ! with deep sobs interrupted. Then 
read he the due supplications. 

Read the Form of Communion, and 
in chimed the organ and anthem ; 

O ! Holy Lamb of God, who takest 
away our transgressions. 

Hear us ! give us thy peace ! have 
mercy, have mercy upon us ! 

Th' old man, with trembling hand, 
and heavenly pearls on his eye- 
lids. 

Filled now the chalice and paten, and 
dealt round the mystical symbols. 

O ! then seemed it to me, as if God, 
with the broad eye of mid-day. 

Clearer looked in at the windows, and 
all the trees in the churchyard 

Bowed down their summits of green, 
and the grass on the graves 'gan 
to shiver. 

But in the children, (I noted it well ; 
I knew it) there ran a 

Tremor of holy rapture along through 
their icy-cold members. 

Decked like an altar before them, 
there stood the green earth, and 
above it 

Heaven opened itself, as of old before 
Stephen they saw there 

Radiant in glory the Father, and on 
his right hand the Redeemer. 

Under them hear they the clang of 
harpstrings, and angels from gold 
clouds 

Beckon to them like brothers, and fan 
with their pinions of purple. 

Closed was the Teacher's task, and 
with heaven in their hearts and 
their faces. 



50 



THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. — ENDYMION. 



Up rose the children all, and each t, 
bowed him, weeping full sorely. 

Downward to kiss that reverend hand, 
but all of them pressed he 



Moved to his bosom, and laid, with a 
prayer, his hands full of blessings. 

Now on the holy breast, and now on 
the innocent tresses. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 

Under a spreading chestnut tree 
The village smithy stands ; 

The smith, a mighty man is he, 
With large and sinewy hands ; 

And the muscles of his brawny arms 
Are strong as iron bands. 

His hair is crisp, and black, and long. 

His face is like the tan ; 
His brow is wet with honest sweat, 

He earns whatever he can. 
And looks the whole world in the face, 

For he owes not any man. 



from 



till 



Week in, week out, 
night. 
You can hear his bellows blow ; 
You can hear him swing his heavy 
sledge. 
With measured beat and slow, 
Like a sexton ringing the village bell, 
When the evening sun is low. 

And children coming home from 
school 

Look in at the open door; 
They love to see the flaming forge, 

And hear the bellows roar. 
And catch the burning sparks that fly 

Like chaff from a threshing floor. 

He goes on Sunday to the church, 
And sits among his boys ; 

Pie hears the parson pray and preach, 
He hears his daughter's voice, 

Singing in the village choir, 
And it makes his heart rejoice. 



It sounds to him like her mother's 
voice, 
Singing in Paradise ! 
He needs must think of her once 
more. 
How in the grave she lies ; 
And with his hard, rough hand he 
wipes 
A tear out of his eyes. 

Toiling, — rejoicing, — sorrowing, 
Onward through life he goes ; 

Each morning sees some task begin, 
Each evening sees it close ; 

Something attempted, something 
done, 
Has earned a nighfs repose. 

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy 
friend, 

For the lesson thou hast taught ! 
Thus at the flaming forge of life 

Our fortunes must be wrought ; 
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 

Each burning deed and thought ! 



ENDYMION. 

The rising moon has hid the stars ; 

Her level rays, like golden bars. 
Lie on the landscape green. 
With shadows brown between. 

And silver white the river gleams, 
As if Diana, in her dreams. 

Had dropt her silver bow 

Upon the meadows low. 



THE TWO LOCKS OF HAIR. — IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY. 



51 



¥ 



On such a tranquil night as this, 

She woke Endymion with a kiss, 

When, sleeping in the grove, 

He dreamed not of her love. 

Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought, 
Love gives itself, but is not bought ; 
Nor voice, nor sound betrays 
Its deep, impassioned gaze. 

It comes, — the beautiful, the free. 
The crown of all humanity, — 

In silence and alone 

To seek the elected one. 

It lifts the boughs, whose shadows 
deep, 

Are Life's oblivion, the souPs sleep. 
And kisses the closed eyes 
Of him, who slumbering lies. 

O, weary hearts ! O, slumbering eyes ! 
O, drooping souls, whose destinies 

Are fraught with fear and pain, 

Ye shall be loved again ! 

No one is so accursed by fate. 
No one so utterly desolate, 

But some heart, though unknown, 

Responds unto his own. 

Responds, — as if with unseen wings, 
An angel touched its quivering 
strings ; 
And whispers, in its song, 
" Where hast thou stayed so long ! " 



THE TWO LOCKS OF HAIR. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF PFIZER. 

A YOUTH, light-hearted and content, 
I wander through the world ; 

Here, Arab-like, is pitched my tent 
And straight again is furled. 

Yet oft I dream, that once a wife 
Close in my heart was locked, 

And in the sweet repose of life 
A blessed child 1 rocked. 



I wake ! Away that dream, — away ! 

Too long did it remain ! 
So long, that both by night and day 

It ever comes again. 

The end lies ever in my thought ; 

To a grave so cold and deep 
The mother beautiful was brought ; 

Then dropt the child asleep. 

But now the dream is wholly o'er, 
I bathe mine eyes and see ; 

And wander through the world once 
more, 
A youth so light and free. 

Two locks, — and they are wondrous 
fair, — 

Left me that vision mild ; 
The brown is from the mother's hair, 

The blond is from the child. 

And when I see that lock of gold. 
Pale grows the evening-red ; 

And when the dark lock I behold, 
I wish that I were dead. 



IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY. 

NO HAY PAJAROS EN LOS NIDOS DE 
ANTANO. 

Spajiish Proverb. 

The sun is bright, — the air is clear. 
The darting swallows soar and sing, 

And from the stately elms I hear 
The bluebird prophesying Spring. 

So blue yon winding river flows, 
It seems an outlet from the sky. 

Where waiting till the west wind 
blows, 
The freighted clouds at anchor lie. 

All things are new ; — the buds, the 
leaves. 
That gild the elm tree's nodding 
crest, 



52 



THE RAINY DAY. — TO THE RIVER CHARLES. 



And even the nest beneath the 
eaves ; — 
There are no birds in last year's 
nest ! 

All things rejoice in youth and love, 
The fulness of their first delight ! 

And learn from the soft heavens above 
The melting tenderness of night. 

Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme, 
Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay ; 

Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime. 
For O ! it is not always May ! 

Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth, 

To some good angel leave the rest ; 

For Time will teach thee soon the 

truth, 

There are no birds in last year's 

nest ! 



THE RAINY DAY. 

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary ; 
It rains, and the wind is never weary ; 
The vine still clings to the mouldering 

wall. 
But at every gust the dead leaves fall, 
And the day is dark and dreary. 



My life is cold, and dark, and dreary ; 

It rains, and the wind is never weary ; 

My thoughts still cling to the moulder- 
ing Past, 

But the hopes of youth fall thick in 
the blast, 
And the days are dark and dreary. 



Be still, sad heart ! and cease repining ; 
Behind the clouds is the sun still 

shining ; 
Thy fate is the common fate of all, 
Into each life some rain must fall, 
Some days must be dark and dreary. 



GOD'S-ACRE. 

I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase, 
which calls 
The burial-ground God's-Acre ! It 
is just ; 
It consecrates each grave within its 
walls. 
And breathes a benison o'er the 
sleeping dust. 

God's-Acre ! Yes, that blessed name 
imparts 
Comfort to those, who in the grave 
have sown 
The seed, that they had garnered in 
their hearts. 
Their bread of life, alas ! no more 
their own. 

Into its furrows shall we all be cast, 
In the sure faith, that we shall rise 
again 
At the great harvest, when the arch- 
angel's blast 
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff 
and grain. 
Then shall the good stand in immortal 
bloom, 
In the fair gardens of that second 
birth ; 
And each bright "blossom, mingle its 
perfume 
With that of flowers, which never 
bloomed on earth. 

With thy rude ploughshare, Death, 
turn up the sod, 
And spread the furrow for the seed 
we sow ; 
This is the field and Acre of our God, 
This is the place where human 
harvests grow ! 



TO THE RIVER CHARLES. 

River ! that in silence windest 
Through the meadows, bright and 
free, 



BLIND BARTIMEUS.— THE GOBLET OF LIFE. 



53 



Till at length thy rest thou findest 
In the bosom of the sea ! 

Four long years of mingled feeling, 
Half in rest, and half in strife, 

I have seen thy waters, stealing 
Onward, like the stream of life. 

Thou hast taught me, Silent River ! 

Many a lesson, deep and long ; 
Thou hast been a generous giver ; 

I can give thee but a song. 

Oft in sadness and in illness, 

I have watched thy current glide, 

Till the beauty of its stillness 
Overflowed me, like a tide. 

And in better hours and brighter. 
When I saw thy waters gleam, 

I have felt my heart beat lighter. 
And leap onward with thy stream. 

N(5t for this alone I love thee, 
Nor because thy waves of blue 

From celestial seas above thee 
Take their ow^n celestial hue. 

Where yon shadowy woodlands hide 
thee, 

And thy waters disappear, 
Friends I love have dwelt beside thee, 

And have made thy margin dear. 

More than this ; — thy name reminds 
me 

Of three friends, all true and tried ; 
And that name, like magic, binds me 

Closer, closer to thy side. 

Friends my soul with joy remembers! 

How like quivering flames they 
start, 
When I fan the living embers 

On the hearth-stone of my heart ! 

'T is for this, thou Silent River ! 

That my spirit leans to thee ; 
Thou hast been a generous giver, 

Take this idle song from me. 



BLIND BARTIMEUS. 

Blind Bartimeus at the gates 
Of Jericho in darkness waits ; 
He hears the crowd ; — he hears a 

breath 
Say, " It is Christ of Nazareth ! " 
And calls, in tones of agony, 
'Irjcrov, iXirja-ov /xe .' 

The thronging multitudes increase ; 
Blind Bartimeus, hold thy peace ! 
But still, above the noisy crowd, 
The beggar's cry is shrill and loud ; 
Until they say, " He calleth thee ! " 
@dpcrcL, eyei/oat, cfxuvel ere .' 

Then saith the Christ, as silent stands 
The crowd, '"What wilt thou at my 

hands ? 
And he replies, " O give me light ! 
Rabbi, restore the blind man's sight ! " 
And Jesus answers, "Yiraye • 
*H TTLdTL'^ GOV aeawKe ae ! 

Ye that have eyes, yet cannot see, 
In darkness and in misery. 
Recall those mighty Voices Three, 
'Ir](Tov iXiyjG-ov fie! 
@dpaei, eyeipai, viraye! 
'H TTiaTis (Tov (rea(DKe ae ! 



THE GOBLET OF LIFE. 

Filled is Life's goblet to the brim ; 
And though my eyes with tears are 

dim, 
I see its sparkling bubbles swim, 
And chant a melancholy hymn 
With solemn voice and slow. 

No purple flowers, — no garlands 
green, 

Conceal the goblet's shade or sheen, 

Nor maddening draughts of Hippo- 
crene. 

Like gleams of sunshine, flash be- 
tween 
Thick leaves of mistletoe. 



54 



THE GOBLET OF LIFE. —MAIDENHOOD. 



This goblet, wrought with curious art, 
Is filled with waters, that upstart. 
When the deep fountains of the heart, 
By strong convulsions rent apart, 
Are running all to waste. 

And as it mantling passes round, 
With fennel is it wreathed and 

crowned, 
Whose seed and foliage sun-im- 

browned 
Are in its waters steeped and drowned, 
And give a bitter taste. 

Above the lowly plants it towers. 
The fennel, with its yellow flowers. 
And in an earlier age than ours 
Was gifted with the wondrous powers. 
Lost vision to restore. 

It gave new strength, and fearless 

mood ; 
And gladiators, fierce and rude. 
Mingled it in their daily food ; 
And he who battled and subdued, 
A wreath of fennel wore. 

Then in Life's goblet freely press. 
The leaves that give it bitterness, 
Nor prize the colored waters less, 
For in thy darkness and distress 
New light and strength they give ! 

And he who has not learned to know 
How false its sparkling bubbles show, 
How bitter are the drops of woe. 
With which its brim may overflow, 
He has not learned to live. 

The prayer of Ajax was for light ; 
Through all that dark and desperate 

fight, 
The blackness of that noonday night. 
He asked but the return of sight, 
To see his foeman's face. 

Let our unceasing, earnest prayer 
Be, too, for light, — for strength to 
bear 



Our portion of the weight of care. 
That crushes into dumb despair 
One half the human race. 

O suffering, sad humanity ! 

ye afllicted ones, who lie 
Steeped to the lips in misery. 
Longing, and yet afraid to die, 

Patient, though sorely tried ! 

1 pledge you in this cup of grief, 
Where floats the fennel's bitter leaf, 
The Battle of our Life is brief. 

The alarm, — the stmggle, — the re- 
lief,— 
Then sleep we side by side. 



MAIDENHOOD. 

Maiden ! with the meek, brown eyes 
In whose orbs a shadow lies 
Like the dusk in evening skies ! 

Thou whose locks outshine the sun, 
Golden tresses, wreathed in one, 
As the braided streamlets run ! 

Standing, with reluctant feet. 
Where the brook and river meet. 
Womanhood and childhood fleet ! 

Gazing, with a timid glance. 
On the brooklet's swift advance, 
On the river's broad expanse ! 

Deep and still, that gliding stream 
Beautiful to thee must seem, 
As the river of a dream. 

Then why pause with indecision, 
When bright angels in thy vision 
Beckon thee to fields Elysian? 

Seest thou shadows sailing by. 
As the dove, with startled eye, 
Sees the falcon's shadow fly? 



MAIDENHOOD. — EXCELSIOR. 



55 



Hearest thou voices on the shore, 
That our ears perceive no more, 
Deafened by the cataract's roar? 

O, thou child of many prayers ! 

Life hath quicksands, — Life hath 

snares ! 
Care and age come unawares ! 

Like the swell of some sweet tune, 
Morning rises into noon, 
May glides onward into June. 

Childhood is the bough, where slum- 
bered 

Birds and blossoms many -num- 
bered ; — 

Age, that bough with snows encum- 
bered. 

Gather, then, each flower that grows, 
When the young heart overflows, 
To embalm that tent of snows. 

Bear a lily in thy hand ; 

Gates of brass cannot withstand 

One touch of that magic wand. 

Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth. 
In thy heart the dew of youth. 
On thy lips the smile of truth. 

O, that dew, like balm, shall steal 
Into wounds, that cannot heal, 
Even as sleep our eyes doth seal ; 

And that smile, like sunshine, dart 
Into many a sunless heart. 
For a smile of God thou art. 



EXCELSIOR. 

The sl-iades of night were falling fast. 
As through an Alpine village passed 
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, 
A banner with the strange device. 
Excelsior ! 



His brow was sad ; his eye beneath, 
Flashed like a falchion from its 

sheath, 
And like a silver clarion rung 
The accents of that unknown tongue, 
Excelsior ! 

In happy homes he saw the light 
Of household fires gleam warm and 

bright ; 
Above, the spectral glaciers shone. 
And from his lips escaped a groan, 
Excelsior ! 

" Try not the Pass ! "" the old man said ; 
'' Dark lowers the tempest overhead. 
The roaring torrent is deep and wide ! " 
And loud that clarion voice replied. 
Excelsior ! 

" O stay," the maiden said, " and rest 
Thy weary head upon this breast !" 
A tear stood in his bright blue eye. 
But still he answered, v\ith a sigh. 
Excelsior ! 

'' Beware the pine tree's withered 
branch ! 

Beware the awful avalanche ! " 

This was the peasant's last Good- 
night, 

A voice replied, far up the height. 
Excelsior ! 

At break of day, as heavenward 
The pious monks of Saint Bernard 
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, 
A voice cried through the startled air, 
Excelsior ! 

A traveller, by the faithful hound. 
Half-buried in the snow was found, 
Still grasping in his hand of ice 
That banner with the strange device, 
Excelsior ! 

There in the twilight cold and gray, 
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay. 
And from the sky, serene and far, 
A voice fell, like a falling star, 
Excelsior ! 



56 



TO WILLIAM E. CHANNING. — THE SLAVE'S DREAM. 



POEMS ON SLAVERY. 1842. 



[The following poems, with one exception, were written at sea, in the latter part of Octo- 
ber. I had not then heard of Dr. Channing's death. Since that event, the poem addressed 
to him is no longer appropriate. I have decided, however, to let it remain as it was written, 
a feeble testimony ot my admiration for a great and good man.] 



TO WILLIAM E. CHANNING. 

The pages of thy book I read, 

And as I closed each one, 
My heart, responding, ever said, 

" Servant of God ! well done ! " 

Well done ! Thy words are great and 
bold. 

At times they seem to me, 
Like Luther's, in the days of old, 

Half-battles for the free. 

Go on, until this land revokes 
The old and chartered Lie, 

The feudal curse, whose whips and 
yokes 
Insult humanity. 

A voice is ever at thy side 
Speaking in tones of might, 

Like the prophetic voice, that cried 
To John in Patmos, " Write ! " 

Write! and tell out this bloody tale ; 

Record this dire eclipse, 
This Day of Wrath, this Endless Wail, 

This dread Apocalypse ! 



THE SLAVE'S DREAM. 

Beside the ungathered rice he lay, 

His sickle in his hand ; 
His breast was bare, his matted hair 

Was buried in the sand. 
Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep, 

He saw his Native Land. 



Wide through the landscape of his 
dreams 

The lordly Niger flowed ; 
Beneath the palm-trees on the plain 

Once more a king he strode ; 
And heard the tinkling caravans 

Descend the mountain-road. 

He saw once more his dark-eyed queen 
Among her children stand ; 

They clasped his neck, they kissed his 
cheeks, 
They held him by the hand ! — 

A tear burst from the sleeper's lids 
And fell into the sand. 

And then at furious speed he rode 

Along the Niger's bank ; 
His bridle-reins were golden chains. 

And, with a martial clank, 
At each leap he could feel his scabbard 
of steel 

Smiting his stallion's flank. 

Before him, like a blood-red flag. 
The bright flamingoes flew ; 

From morn till night he followed their 
flight. 
O'er plains where the tamarind grew, 

Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts, 
And the ocean rose to view. 

At night he heard the lion roar. 

And the hyaena scream. 
And the river-horse, as he crushed the 
reeds 
Beside some hidden stream ; 
And it passed, like a glorious roll of 
drums, 
Through the triumph of his dream. 



THE GOOD PART. — THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP. 57 



The forests, with their myriad tongues, 

Shouted of liberty ; 
And the Blast of the Desert cried 
aloud, 

With a voice so wild and free, 
That he started in his sleep and smiled 

At their tempestuous glee. 

He did not feel the driver's whip. 
Nor the burning heat of day ; 

For Death had illumined the Land of 
Sleep, 
And his Hfeless body lay 

A worn-out fetter, that the soul 
Had broken and thrown away ! 



THE GOOD PART, 

THAT SHALL NOT BE TAKEN AWAY. 

She dwells by Great Kenhawa's side, 
In valleys green and cool ; 

And all her hope and all her pride 
Are in the village school. 

Her soul, like the transparent air 
That robes the hills above, 

Though not of earth, encircles there 
All things with arms of love. 

And thus she walks among her girls 
With praise and mild rebukes ; 

Subduing e'en rude village churls 
By her angelic looks. 

She reads to them at eventide 
Of One who came to save ; 

To cast the captive's chains aside, 
And liberate the slave. 

And oft the blessed time foretells 
Whe*! all men shall be free ; 

And musical, as silver bells. 
Their falling chains shall be. 

And following her beloved Lord, 

In decent poverty. 
She makes her life one sweet record 

And deed of charity. 



For she was rich, and gave up all 

To break the iron bands 
Of those who waited in her hall, 

And labored in her lands. 

Long since beyond the Southern Sea 
Their outbound sails have sped. 

While she, in meek humility, 
Now earns her daily bread. 

It is their prayers, which never cease, 
That clothe her with such grace ; 

Their blessing is the light of peace 
That shines upon her face. 



THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL 
SWAMP. 

In dark fens of the Dismal Swamp 

The hunted Negro lay ; 
He saw the fire of the midnight camp, 
And heard at times a horse's tramp 

And a bloodhound's distant bay. 

Where will-o'-the-wisps and glow- 
worms shine. 
In bulrush and in brake ; 
Where waving mosses shroud the 

pine. 
And the cedar grows, and the poison- 
ous vine 
Is spotted like the snake ; 

Where hardly a human foot could 
pass. 
Or a human heart would dare. 
On the quaking turf of the green 

morass 
He crouched in the rank and tangled 
grass, 
Like a wild beast in his lair. 

A poor old slave, infirm and lame ; 

Great scars deformed his face ; 
On his forehead he bore the brand 

of shame 
And the rags that hid his mangled 
frame 
Were the livery of disgrace. 



58 THE SLAVE SINGING AT MIDNIGHT.— THE QUADROON GIRL. 



All things above were bright and fair, 

All things were glad and free ; 
Lithe squirrels darted here and there, 
And wild birds filled the echoing air 
With songs of Liberty ! 

On him alone was the doom of pain, 

From the morning of his birth ; 
On him alone the curse of Cain 
Fell like a flail on the garnered grain, 
And struck him to the earth ! 



THE SLAVE SINGING AT 
MIDNIGHT. 

Loud he sang the psalm of David ! 
He, a Negro and enslaved, 
Sang of Israel's victory, 
Sang of Zion, bright and free. 

In that hour, when night is calmest, 
Sang he from the Hebrew Psalmist, 
In a voice so sweet and clear 
That I could not choose but hear, 

Songs of triumph, and ascriptions, 
Such as reached the swart Egyptians, 
When upon the Red Sea coast 
Perished Pharaoh and his host. 

And the voice of his devotion 
Filled my soul with strange emotion ; 
For its tones by turns were glad, 
Sweetly solemn, wildly sad. 

Paul and Silas, in their prison. 
Sang of Christ, the Lord arisen. 
And an earthquake's arm of might 
Broke their dungeon-gates at night. 

But, alas ! what holy angel 
Brings the Slave this glad evangel ? 
And what earthquake's arm of might 
Breaks his dungeon-gates at night ? 



THE WITNESSES. 

In Ocean's wide domains, 

Half- buried in the sands, 
Lie skeletons in chains. 

With shackled feet and hands. 

Beyond the fall of dews. 
Deeper than plummet lies, 

Float ships, with all their crews, 
No more to sink nor rise. 

There the black Slave-ship swims. 
Freighted with human forms, 

Whose fettered, fleshless limbs 
Are not the sport of storms. 

These are the bones of Slaves ; 

They gleam from the abyss ; 
They cry, from yawning waves, 

" We are the Witnesses ! " 

Within Earth's wide domains 
Are markets for men's lives ; 

Their necks are galled with chains, 
Their wrists are cramped with gyves. 

Dead bodies, that the kite 
In deserts makes its prey ; 

Murders, that with aiTright 

Scare schoolboys from their play ! 

All evil thoughts and deeds ; 

Anger and lust and pride ; 
The foulest, rankest weeds. 

That choke Life's groaning tide ! 



These are the woes of Slaves ; 

They glare from the abyss ; 
They cry, from unknown graves, 

" We are the Witnesses ! " 



THE QUADROON GIRL. 

The Slaver in the broad lagoon, 
Lay moored whh idle sail ; 
' ' moon, 
]rale. 



He waited for the rising 
And for the evening < 



THE WARNING. 



59 



Under the shore his boat was tied, 

And all her listless crew 
Watched the gray alligator slide 

Into the still bayou. 

Odors of orange-flowers, and spice, 
Reached them from time to time, 

Like airs that breathe from Paradise 
Upon a world of crime. 

The Planter, under his roof of thatch, 
Smoked thoughtfully and slow ; 

The Slaver's thumb was on the latch, 
He seemed in haste to go. 

He said, " My ship at anchor rides 

In yonder broad lagoon ; 
I only wait the evening tides. 

And the rising of the moon." 

Before them, with her face upraised. 

In timid attitude. 
Like one half curious, half amazed, 

A Quadroon maiden stood. 

Her eyes were large, and full of light. 
Her arms and neck were bare ; 

No garment she wore save a kirtle 
bright 
And her own long, raven hair. 

And on her lips there played a smile 

As holy, meek, and faint. 
As lights in some cathedral aisle 

The features'of a saint. 

" The soil is barren, — the farm is 
old," 

The thoughtful Planter said ; 
Then looked upon the Slaver's gold. 

And then upon the maid. 

His heart within him was at strife 

With such accursed gains ; 
For he knew whose passions gave her 

Whose blood ran in her veins. 

But the voice of nature was too weak ; 
He took the glittering gold ! 



Then pale as death grew the maiden's 
cheek 
Her hands as icy cold. 

The Slaver led her from the door. 

He led her by the hand. 
To be his slave and paramour 

In a strange and distant land ! 



THE WARNING. 

Beware ! The Israelite of old, who 

tore 
The lion in his path, — when, poor 

and blind. 
He saw the blessed light of heaven no 

more. 
Shorn of his noble strength and 

forced to grind 
In prison, and at last led forth to be 
A pander to Philistine revelry, — 



Upon the pillars of the temple laid 
His desperate hands, and in its 

overthrow 
Destroyed himself, and with him those 

who made 
A cruel mockery of his sightless 

woe; 
The poor, blind Slave, the scoff and 

jest of all, 
Expired, and thousands perished in 

the fall ! 

There is a poor, blind Samson in this 
land, 
Shorn of his strength, and bound 
in bonds of steel. 

Who may, in some grim revel, raise 
his hand. 
And shake the pillars of this Com- 
monweal, 

Till the vast Temple of our liberties 

A shapeless mass of wreck and rub- 
bish lies. 



6o 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



THE SPANISH STUDENT, 1843. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

Victorian, > Students of Alcald, 

Hypolito, ) -^ 

The Count OF Lara, j ^ Gentlemen of Madrid, 

Don Carlos, ) •' 

The Archbishop of Toledo. 

A Cardinal. 

Beltran Cruzado, .... Count of the Gipsies. 

Bartolome Roman, .... A young Gipsy. 

The Padre Cura of Guadarrama. 

Pedro Crespo, Alcalde. 

Pancho, Alguacil. 

Francisco, Lara^s Servant. 

Chispa, Victoriaii's Servant. 

Baltasar, Innkeeper. 

Preciosa, A Gipsy Girl. 

Angelica, , . A poor Girl. 

Martina, The Padre Cura''s Niece. 

Dolores, Preciosa''s Maid. 

Gipsies, Musicians, &^c. 



ACT I. 

Scene I. The Count of Lara's 
chambers. Night. The Count 
ijt his dressing-gown, si7ioking and 
conversing with Don Carlos. 

Lara. You were not at the play 
to-night, Don Carlos ; 

How happened it ? 

Carlos. I had engage- 

ments elsewhere. 

Pray who was there ? 

Lara. Why, all the 

town and court. 

The house was crowded ; and the 
busy fans 

Among the gayly dressed and per- 
fumed ladies 

Fluttered like butterflies among the 
flowers. 

There was the Countess of Medina 
CeH; 

The Goblin Lady with her Phantom 
Lover, 



Her Lindo Don Diego ; Dona Sol, 
And Doiia Serafina, and her cousins. 
Carlos. What was the play ? 
Lara. It was a dull affair; 

One of those comedies in which you 

see. 
As Lope says, the history of the world 
Brought down from Genesis to the 

Day of Judgment. 
There were three duels fought in the 

first act. 
Three gentlemen receiving deadly 

wounds. 
Laying their hands upon their hearts, 

and saying, 
" O, I am dead ! " a lover in a closet, 
An old hidalgo, and a gay Don Juan, 
A Doila Inez with a black mantilla, 
Followed at twilight by an unknown 

lover. 
Who looks intently where he knows 

she is not ! 
Carlos. Of course, the Preciosa 

danced to-night t 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



6i 



Lara. And never better. Every 
footstep fell 
As lightly as a sunbeam on the water. 
I think the girl extremely beautiful. 
Carlos. Almost beyond the privi- 
lege of woman ! 
I saw her in the Prado yesterday. 
Her step was royal, — queen-like, — 

and her face 
As beautiful as a saint's in Paradise. 
Lara. May not a saint fall from 
her Paradise, 
And be no more a saint ? 

Carlos. Why do you ask ? 

Lara. Because I have heard it 

said this angel fell, 

And, though she is a virgin outwardly, 

Within she is a sinner ; like those 

panels 
Of doors and altar-pieces the old 

monks 
Painted in convents, with the Virgin 

Mary 
On the outside, and on the inside 
Venus ! 
Carlos. You do her wrong ; in- 
deed, you do her wrong ! 
She is as virtuous as she is fair. 
Lara. How credulous you are ! 
Why, look you, friend. 
There's not a virtuous woman in 

Madrid, 
In this whole city ! And would you 
persuade me 
It a mere 
herself. 
Nightly, half-naked, on the stage, for 

money. 
And with voluptuous motions fires 
the blood 
/ Of inconsiderate youth, is to be held 
A model for her virtue ? 

Carlos. You forget 

She is a Gipsy girl. 

Lara. And therefore won 

The easier. 

Carlos. Nay, not to be won at all ! 
The only virtue that a Gipsy prizes 
Is chastity. That is her only vir- 
tue. 



Dearer than life she holds it. I 

remember 
A Gipsy woman, a vile, shameless 

bawd. 
Whose craft was to betray the young 

and fair ; 
And yet this woman was above all 

bribes. 
And when a noble lord, touched by 

her beauty. 
The wild and wizard beauty of her 

race, 
Offered her gold to be what she made 

others, 
She turned upon him, with a look of 

scorn, 
And smote him in the face ! 

Lara. And does that prove 

That Preciosa is above suspicion ? 
Carlos. It proves a nobleman may 

be repulsed 
When he thinks conquest easy. I 

believe 
That woman, in her deepest degra- 
dation. 
Holds something sacred, something 

undefiled. 
Some pledge and keepsake of her 

higher nature, 
And, like the diamond in the dark, 

retains 
Some quenchless gleam of the celes- 
tial light ! 
Lara. Yet Preciosa would have 

taken the gold. 
Carlos \j'2smg] . I do not think so. 
Lara. I am sure of it. 

But why this haste ? Stay yet a little 

longer, 
And fight the battles of your Dulcinea. 
Carlos. 'T is late. I must begone, 

for if I stay 
You will not be persuaded. 

Lara. Yes ; persuade me. 

Carlos. No one so deaf as he who 

will not hear. 
Lara. No one so blind as he who 

will not see ! 
Carlos. And so good night. I 

wish you pleasant dreams, 



62 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



And greater faith in woman. {Exit. 
Lara. Greater faith ! 

I have the greatest faith ; for I beheve 
Victorian is her lover. I beheve 
That I shall be to-morrow ; and there- 
after 
Another, and another, and another 
Chasing each other through her 

zodiac, 
As Taurus chases Aries. 
{Enter Francisco with a casket.'] 

Well, Francisco, 
What speed with Preciosa ? 

Fran. None, my lord. 

She sends your jewels back, and bids 

me tell you 
She is not to be purchased by your 
gold. 
Lara. Then I will try some other 
way to win her. 
Pray, dost thou know Victorian ? 

Fran. Yes, my lord. 

I saw him at the jeweller's to-day. 
Lara. What was he doing there ? 
Fran. I saw him buy 

A golden ring, that had a ruby in it. 
Lara. Was there another like it ? 
Fran., One so like it 

I could not choose between them. 

I^ara. It is well. 

To-morrow morning bring that ring 

to me. 
Do not forget. Now light me to my 
bed. {Exeimt. 

Scene II. A street in Madrid. 
Enter Chispa, followed by musi- 
cians with a bagpipe., guitars., and 
other instruments. 

Chis. Abernuncio Satanas ! and a 
plague on all lovers who ramble about 
at night, drinking the elements, in- 
stead of sleeping quietly in their beds. 
Every dead man to his cemetery, say 
I ; and every friar to his monastery. 
Now, here 's my master, Victorian, 
yesterday a cow-keeper, and to-day a 
gentleman ; yesterday a student, and 
to-day a lover; and I must be up 



later than the nightingale, for as the 
abbot sings so must the sacristan re- 
spond. God grant he may soon be 
married, for then shall all this sere- 
nading cease. Ay, marry ! marry ! 
marry ! Mother, what does marry 
mean? It means to spin, to bear 
children, and to weep, my daughter ! 
And, of a truth, there is something 
more in matrimony than the wedding- 
ring. [To the musicians.] And now, 
gentlemen. Pax vobiscum ! as the 
ass said to the cabbages. Pray, walk 
this way ; and don't hang down your 
heads. It is no disgrace to have an 
old father and a ragged shirt. Now, 
look you, you are gentlemen who lead 
the life of crickets ; you enjoy hunger 
by day and noise by night. Yet, I 
beseech you, for this once be not 
loud, but pathetic ; for it is a ser- 
enade to a damsel in bed, and not 
to the Man in the Moon. Your ob- 
ject is not to arouse and terrify, but 
to soothe and bring lulling dreams. 
Therefore each shall not play upon 
his instrument as if it were the only 
one in the universe, but gently, and 
with a certain modesty, according 
with the others. Pray, how may I 
call thy name, friend ? 

\st Mus. Geronimo Gil, at your 
service. 

Chis. Every tub smells of the wine 
that is in it. Pray, Geronimo, is not 
Saturday an unpleasant day with thee ? 

1st Mus. Why so? 

Chis. Because I have heard it said 
that Saturday is an unpleasant day 
with those who have but one shirt. 
Moreover, I have seen thee at the tav- 
ern, and if thou canst run as fast as 
thou canst drink, I should hke to hunt 
hares with thee. What instrument is 
that ? 

\st Mns. An Aragonese bagpipe. 

Chis. Pray, art thou related to the 
bagpiper of Bujalance, who asked a 
maravedi for playing, and ten for leav- 
ing off? 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



63 



1st Mas. No, your honor. 

Chis. I am glad of it. What other 
instruments have we? 

id and T,d Mils. We play the ban- 
durria. 

Chis. A pleasing instrument. And 
thou? 

4/// Mus. The fife. 

Chis. I like it; it has a cheerful, 
soul-stirring sound, that soars up to 
my lady's window like the song of a 
swallow. And you others ? 

Other Mus. We are the singers, 
please your honor. 

Chis. You are too many. Do you 
think we are going to sing mass in 
the cathedral of Cordova ? Four men 
can make but little use of one shoe, 
and I see not how you can ah sing in 
one song. But follow me along the 
garden wall. That is the way my mas- 
ter cHmbs to the lady's window. It 
is by the Vicar's skirts that the devil 
climbs into the belfry. Come, follow 
me, and make no noise. \_Exeunt. 

Scene HI. — Preciosa's chamber. 
She stands at the ope?t window. 

Pre. How slowly through the lilac- 
scented air 

Descends the tranquil moon ! Like 
thistle-down 

The vapory clouds float in the peace- 
ful sky ; 

And sweetly from yon hollow vaults 
of shade 

The nightingales breathe out their 
souls in song. 

And hark ! what songs of love, what 
soul-like sounds. 

Answer them from below ! 



SERENADE. 

Stars of the summer night ! 

Far in yon azure deeps, 
Hide, hide your golden hght ! 

She sleeps ! 
My lady sleeps ! 

Sleeps ! 



Moon of the summer night ! 

Far down yon western steeps, 
Sink, sink in siiver light! 

She sleeps! 
My lady sleeps ! 

Sleeps ! 

Wind of the summer n'ght ! 

Where yonder woodbine creeps. 
Fold, fold thy pinions light ! 

She sleeps ! 
My lady sleeps! 

Sleeps ! 

Dreams of the summer night ! 

Tell her, her lover keeps 
Watch ! while in slumbers light 

She sleeps ! 
My lady sleeps ! 

Sleeps ! 

\_Enter Victorian by the balcony. '\ 

Vict. Poor httle dove! Thou 

tremblest like a leaf! 
Pre. I am so frightened ! 'T is for 
thee I tremble ! 
I hate to have thee climb that wall by 

night ! 
Did no one see thee? 

Vict. None, my love, but thou. 

Pre. T is very dangerous ; and 
when thou art gone 
I chide myself for letting thee come 

here 
Thus stealthily by night. WTiere hast 

thou been ? 
Since yesterday I have no news from 
thee. 
Vict. Since yesterday I Ve been in 
Alcala. 
Ere long the time will come, sweet 

Preciosa, 
When that dull distance shall no more 

divide us, 
And I no more shall scale thy wall by 

night 
To steal a kiss from thee, as I do now. 
Pre. An honest thief, to steal but 

what thou givest. 
Vict. And we shall sit together 
unmolested. 
And words of true love pass from 
tongue to tongue, 



64 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



As singing birds from one bough to 
another. 
Pre. That were a hfe indeed to 
make time envious ! 
I knew that thou wouldst visit me to- 
night, 
I saw thee at the play. 

Vict. Sweet child of air ! 

Never did I behold thee so attired 
And garmented in beauty as to-night ! 
What hast thou done to make thee 
look so fair? 
Pre. Am I not always fair? 
Vici. Ay, and so fair 

That I am jealous of all eyes that see 

thee, 
And wish that they were blind. 

Pre. I heed them not. 

When thou art present, I see none 
but thee ! 
Vict. There 's nothing fair nor 
beautiful, but takes 
Something from thee, that makes it 
beautiful. 
Pre. And yet thou leavest me for 

those dusty books. 
Vict. Thou comest between me 
and those books too often ! 
I see thy face in everything I see ! 
The paintings in the chapel wear thy 

looks, 
The canticles are changed to sara- 
bands, 
And with the learned doctors of the 

schools 
I see thee dance cachuchas. 

Pre. In good sooth, 

I dance with learned doctors of the 

schools 
To-morrow morning. 

Vict. And with whom, I pray? 

Pre. A grave and reverend Cardi- 
nal, and his Grace 
The Archbishop of Toledo. 

Vict. What mad jest 

Is this? 

Pre. It is no jest ; indeed it is 

not. 
Vict. Prithee, explain thyself. 
Pre. Why, simply thus. 



Thou knowest the Pope has sent here 

into Spain 
To put a stop to dances on the stage. 
Vict. I have heard it whispered. 
Pre. Now the Cardinal, 

Who for this purpose comes, would 

fain behold 
With his own eyes these dances ; and 

the Archbishop 
Has sent for me — 

Vict. That thou mayst 

dance before them ! 
Now viva la cachucha ! It will breathe 
The fire of youth into these gray old 

men ! 
'T will be thy proudest conquest ! 

Pre. Saving one. 

And yet I fear these dances will be 

stopped, 
And Preciosa be once more a beggar. 
Vict. The sweetest beggar that e'er 

asked for alms ; 
With such beseeching eyes, that when 

I saw thee 
I gave my heart away ! 

Pre. Dost thou remember 

When first we met ? 

Vict. It was at Cordova, 

In the cathedral garden. Thou wast 

sitting 
Under the orange trees, beside a 

fountain. 
Pre. 'T was Easter Sunday. The 

full-blossomed trees 
Filled all the air with fragrance and 

with joy. 
The priests were singing, and the 

organ sounded. 
And then anon the great cathedral 

bell. 
It was the elevation of the Host. 
We both of us fell down upon our 

knees. 
Under the orange boughs, and prayed 

together. 
I never had been happy till that 

moment. 
Vict. Thou blessed angel ! 
Pre. And when thou wast gone 
I felt an aching here. I did not speak 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



65 



To any one that day. But from that 

day 
Bartolome grew hateful unto me. 
Vict. Remember him no more. 

Let not his shadow 
Come between thee and me. Sweet 

Preciosa ! 
I loved thee even then, though I was 

silent ! 
Pre. I thought I ne'er should see 

thy face again. 
Thy farewell had a sound of sorrow 

in it. 
Vict. That was the first sound in 

the song of love ! 
Scarce more than silence is, and yet 

a sound. 
Hands of invisible spirits touch the 

strings 
Of that mysterious instrument, the soul, 
And play the prelude of our fate. 

We hear 
The voice prophetic, and are not alone. 
Pre. That is my faith. Dost thou 

believe these warnings ? 
Vict. So far as this. Our feelings 

and our thoughts 
Tend ever on, and rest not in the 

Present. 
As drops of rain fall into some dark 

well. 
And from below comes a scarce 

audible sound, 
So fall our thoughts into the dark 

Hereafter, 
And their mysterious echo reaches us. 
Pre. I have felt it so, but found no 

words to say it ! 
I cannot reason ; I can only feel ! 
But thou hast language forall thoughts 

and feelings. 
Thou art a scholar ; and sometimes I 

think 
We cannot walk together in this 

world ! 
The distance that divides us is too 

great ! 
Henceforth thy pathway lies among 

the stars ; 
I must not hold thee back. 



Vict. Thou little sceptic ! 

Dost thou still doubt? What 1 most 

prize in woman 
Is her affections, not her intellect ! 
The intellect is finite ; but the affec- 
tions 
Are infinite, and cannot be exhausted. 
Compare me with the great men of 

the earth ; 
What am I ? Why, a pigmy among 

giants ! 
But if thou lovest, — mark me ! I say 

lovest. 
The greatest of thy sex excels thee 

not ! 
The world of the affections is thy 

world. 
Not that of man''s ambition. In that 

stillness 
Which most becomes a woman, calm 

and holy. 
Thou sittest by the fireside of the 

heart. 
Feeding its flame. The element of 

fire 
Is pure. It cannot change nor hide 

its nature. 
But burns as brightly in a Gipsy camp 
As in a palace hall. Art thou con- 
vinced ? 
Pre. Yes, that I love thee, as the 

good love heaven. 
But not that I am worthy of that heaven. 
How shall I more deserve it ? 

Vict. Loving more. 

Pre. I cannot love thee more ; my 

heart is full. 
Vict. Then let it overflow, and I 

will drink it. 
As in the summer-time the thirsty 

sands 
Drink the swift waters of the Man- 

zanares, 
And still do thirst for more. 

A Watch \in the streef]^. Ave 

Maria 
Purissima ! 'T is midnight and serene ! 
Vict. Hear'st thou that cry? 
Pre. It is a hateful sound, 

To scare thee from me ! 



66 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



Vict. As the hunter's horn 

Doth scare the timid stag, or bark of 

hounds 
The moor-fowl from his mate. 

Pre. Pray, do not go. 

Vict. I must away to Alcald to- 
night. 
Think of me when I am away. 

P?'e. Fear not ! 

I have no thoughts that do not think 
of thee. 
Vict, [givijig her a ring] . And to 
remind thee of my love, take this ; 
A serpent, emblem of Eternity ; 
A ruby, — say, a drop of my heart's 
blood. 
Pre. It is an ancient saying, that 
the ruby 
Brings gladness to the wearer, and 

preserves 
The heart pure, and, if laid beneath 

the pillow. 
Drives away evil dreams. But then, 

alas ! 
It was a serpent tempted Eve to sin. 
Vict. What convent of barefooted 
Carmelites 
Taught thee so much theology? 
Pre. [laying her hand icpon his 
7nouth'\ . Hush ! Hush ! 
Good night ! and may all holy angels 
guard thee ! 
Vict. Good night ! good night ! 
Thou art my guardian angel ! 
I have no other saint than thou to 
pray to ! 

[He descends by the balcony] . 
Pre. Take care, and do not hurt 

thee. Art thou safe? 
Vict. [ from the garden] . Safe as 
my love for thee ! But art thou 
safe? 
Others can climb a balcony by moon- 
light 
As well as I. Pray, shut thy window 

close ; 
I am jealous of the perfumed air of 

night 
That from this garden climbs to kiss 
thy lips. 



Pre. [throwing down her haiidker- 
chief] . Thou silly child. Take 
this to blind thine eyes. 
It is my benison ! 

Vict. And brings to me 

Sweet fragrance from thy lips, as the 

soft wind 
Wafts to the out-bound mariner the 

breath 
Of the beloved land he leaves behind. 
Pre. Make not thy voyage long. 
Vict. To-morrow night 

Shall see me safe returned. Thou art 

the star 
To guide me to an anchorage. Good 

night ! 
My beauteous star ! My star of love, 
good night ! 
Pre. Good night ! 
Watch [at a distance] . Ave Maria 
Purissima ! 

Scene IV. An inn on the road to 
Alcald. Baltasar asleep 07i a 
bench. Enter Chispa. 

Chis. And here we are, halfway 
to Alcala, between cocks and mid- 
night. Body o' me I what an inn 
this is ! The lights out, and the land- 
lord asleep. Hold! ancient Baltasar ! 

Bait, [waking]. Here I am. 

Chis. Yes, there you are, like a 
one-eyed Alcalde in a town without 
inhabitants. Bring a light, and let 
me have supper. 

Bait. Where is your master ? 

Chis. Do not trouble yourself 
about him. We have stopped a 
moment to breathe our horses ; and, 
if he chooses to walk up and down in 
the open air, looking into the sky as 
one who hears it rain, that does not 
satisfy my hunger, you know. But 
be quick, for I am in a hurry, and 
every man stretches his legs accord- 
ing to the length of his coverlet. 
What have we here ? 

Bait, [setting a light on the table] . 
Stewed rabbit. 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



67 



Chis. \_eating\ . Conscience of Por- 
talegre ! Stewed kitten, you mean ! 

BaU. And a pitcher of Pedro 
Ximenes, with a roasted pear in it. 

CMs. \drinking\. Ancient Balta- 
sar, amigo ! You know how to cry 
wine and sell vinegar. I tell you 
this is nothing but Vino Tinto of La 
Mancha, with a tang of the s wineskin. 

Bait. I swear to you by Saint 
Simon and Judas, it is all as I say. 

Chis. And I swear to you, by Saint 
Peter and Saint Paul, that it is no such 
thing. Moreover, your supper is like 
the hidalgo's dinner, very little meat, 
an^l a great deal of table-cloth. 

Bait. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Chis. And more noise than nuts. 

Bait. Ha ! ha ! ha ! You must 
have your joke, Master Chispa. But 
shall I not ask Don Victorian in, to 
take a draught of the Pedro Ximenes ? 

Chis. No ; you might as well say, 
"Don't-you-want-some ? '' to a dead 
man. 

Bait. Why does he go so often 
to Madrid ? 

Chis. For the same reason that 
he eats no supper. He is in love. 
Were you ever in love, Baltasar ? 

Bait. I was never out of it, good 
Chispa. It has been the torment of 
my life. 

Chis. What ! are you on fire, too, 
old haystack ? Why, we shall never 
be able to put you out. 

Vict, [without']. Chispa! 

Chis. Go to bed, Pero Grullo, for 
the cocks are crowing. 

Vict. Ea ! Chispa ! Chispa ! 

Chis. Ea! Sefior. Come with me, 
ancient Baltasar, and bring water for 
the horses. I will pay for the supper 
to-morrow. \Exeunt. 

Scene V. Victorian's chambers at 
Alcald. Hypolito asleep in an 
arm-chair. He awakes slowly. 
Hyp. I must have been asleep ! 
ay, sound asleep, 



And it was all a dream. O sleep, 

sweet sleep ! 
Whatever form thou takest, thou art 

fair. 
Holding unto our lips thy goblet 

filled 
Out of Oblivion's well, a healing 

draught ! 
The candles have burned low ; it 

must be late. 
Where can Victorian be ? Like Fray 

Carrillo, 
The only place in which one cannot 

find him 
Is his own cell. Here 's his guitar, 

that seldom 
Feels the caresses of its master's 

hand. 
Open thy silent lips, sweet instru- 
ment ! 
And make dull midnight merry with 

a song. 

\He plays and sings ^ 

Padre Francisco ! 

Padre Francisco ! 

What do you want of Padre Francisco ? 

Here is a pretty young maiden 

Who wants to confess iier sins. 

Open the door and let her come in, 

I will shrive her from every sin. 

{Enter Victorian.] 

Vict. Padre Hypolito ! Padre 
Hypolito ! 

Hyp. What do you want of Padre 
Hypolito ? 

Vict. Come, shrive me straight ; 
for, if love be a sin, 
I am the greatest sinner that doth 

live. 
I will confess the sweetest of all 

crimes, 
A maiden wooed and won. 

Hyp. The same old tale 

Of the old woman in the chimney 

corner, 
Who, while the pot boils, says, " Come 

here, my child ; 
I '11 tell thee a story of my wedding- 
day." 



68 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



Vict. Nay, listen, for my heart is 

full ; so full 
That I must speak. 

Hyp. Alas ! that heart of thine 
Is like a scene in the old play ; the 

curtain 
Rises to solemn music, and lo ! enter 
The eleven thousand virgins of Co- 
logne ! 
Vict. Nay, like the SibyPs vol- 
umes, thou shouldst say ; 
Those that remained, after the six 

were burned. 
Being held more precious than the 

nine together. 
But listen to my tale. Dost thou 

remember 
The Gipsy girl we saw at Cordova 
Dance the Romalis in the market-place ? 
Hyp. Thou meanest Preciosa. 
Vict. Ay, the same. 

Thou knowest how her image haunted 

me 
Long after we returned to Alcald. 
She 's in Madrid. 

Hyp. I know it. 

Vict. And I 'm in love. 

Hyp. And therefore in Madrid 

when thou shouldst be 
In Alcald. 

Vict. O pardon me, my friend, 

If I so long have kept this secret from 

thee ; 
But silence is the charm that guards 

such treasures. 
And, if a word be spoken ere the time. 
They sink again, they were not meant 

for us. 
Hyp. Alas ! alas ! I see thou art 

in love. 
Love keeps the cold out better than 

a cloak. 
It serves for food and raiment. Give 

a Spaniard 
His mass, his olla, and his Doiia 

Luisa, — 
Thou knowest the proverb. But pray 

tell me, lover. 
How speeds thy wooing ? Is the 

maiden coy ? 



Write her a song, beginning with an 

Ave ; 
Sing as the monk sang to the Virgin 

Mary, 

Ave / cujus calcem dare 
Nee centeitni commendare 
Sciret Seraph studio ! 

Vict. Pray, do not jest ! This is 
no time for it. 
I am in earnest ! 

Hyp. Seriously enamoured ? 

What, ho ! The Primus of great 

Alcald 
Enamoured of a Gipsy ? Tell me 

frankly. 
How meanest thou ? 

Vict. 1 mean it honestly. 

Hyp. Surely thou wilt not marry 

her! 
Vict. Why not ? 

Hyp. She was betrothed to one 
Bartolomd, 
If I remember rightly, a young Gipsy 
Who danced with her at Cordova. 

Vict. They quarrelled, 

And so the matter ended. 

Hyp. But in truth 

Thou wilt not marry her ? 

Vict. In truth, I will. 

The angels sang in heaven when she 

was born ! 
She is a precious jewel I have found 
Among the filth and rubbish of the 

world, 
ril stoop for it ; but when I wear it 

here. 
Set on my forehead like the morning 

star, 
The world may wonder, but it will 
not laugh. 
Hyp. If thou wearst nothing else 
upon thy forehead, 
'T will be indeed a wonder. 

Vict. Out upon thee, 

With thy unseasonable jests ! Pray, 

tell me, 
Is there no virtue in the world ? 
Hyp. Not much. 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



69 



What, think'st thou, is she doing at 

this moment ; 
Now, while we speak of her ? 

Vict. She lies asleep, 

And, from her parted lips, her gentle 

breath 
Comes like the fragrance from the lips 

of flowers. 
Her tender limbs are still, and, on her 

breast, 
The cross she prayed to, e'er she fell 

asleep. 
Rises and falls with the soft tide of 

dreams. 
Like a light barge safe moored. 

Hyp. Which means, in prose. 

She 's sleeping with her mouth a little 

open ! 
Vtct. O, would I had the old magi- 
cian's glass 
To see her as she lies in childlike 

sleep ! 
Hyp. And wouldst thou venture ? 
Vict. Ay, indeed I would ! 

Hyp. Thou art courageous. Hast 

thou e'er reflected 
How much lies hidden in that one 

word, now? 
Vict. Yes ; all the awful mystery 

of Life! 
I oft have thought, my dear Hypolito, 
That could we, by some spell of magic, 

change 
The world and its inhabitants to stone, 
In the same attitudes they now are in. 
What fearful glances downward might 

we cast 
Into the hollow chasms of human 

life! 
What groups should we behold about 

the deathbed, 
Putting to shame the group of Niobe ! 
What joyful welcomes, and what sad 

farewells ! 
What stony tears in those congealed 

eyes ! 
What visible joy or anguish in those 

cheeks ! 
What bridal pomps, and what funereal 

shows ! 



What foes, like gladiators, fierce and 
struggling! 

What lovers with their marble lips 
together ! 
Hyp. Ay, there it is ! and, if I were 
in love, 

That is the very point I most should 
dread. 

This magic glass, these magic spells 
of thine, 

Might tell a tale were better left un- 
told. 

For mstance, they might show us thy 
fair cousin, 

The Lady Violante, bathed in tears 

Of love and anger, like the maid of 
Colchis, 

Whom thou, another faithless Argo- 
naut, 

Having won that golden fleece, a 
woman's love, 

Desertest for this Glauc^. 

Vict. Hold thy peace ! 

She cares not for me. She may wed 
another, 

Or go into a convent, and, thus dy- 
ing. 

Marry Achilles in the Elysian Fields. 
Hyp. \rising\ . And so, good night ! 
Good morning, I should say. 
\Clock strikes three.'] 

Hark! how the loud and ponderous 
mace of Time 

Knocks at the golden portals of the 
day ! 

And so, once more, good night ! We'll 
speak more largely 

Of Preciosa when we meet again. 

Get thee to bed, and the magician, 
Sleep, 

Shall show her to thee, in his magic 
glass. 

In all her loveliness. Good night ! 

[Exit. 
Vict. Good night ! 

But not to bed ; for I must read awhile. 

[Throws himself into the arm-chair 
which Hypolito has left, and lays 
a large book open upon his knees ^ 



70 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



Must read, or sit in revery and watch 
The changing color of the waves tliat 

break 
Upon the idle seashore of the mind ! 
Visions of Fame ! that once did visit 

me, 
Making night glorious with your smile, 

where are ye ? 
O, who shall give me, now that ye are 

gone. 
Juices of those immortal plants that 

bloom 
Upon Olympus, making us immortal ? 
Or teach me where that wondrous 

mandrake grows 
Whose magic root, torn from the earth 

with groans, 
At midnight hour, can scare the fiends 

away. 
And make the mind prolific in its fan- 
cies ? 
I have the wish, but want the will, to 

act ! 
Souls of great men departed ! Ye 

whose words 
Have come to light from the swift river 

of Time, 
Like Roman swords found in the 

Tagus' bed. 
Where is the strength to wield the 

arms ye bore ? 
From the barred visor of Antiquity 
Reflected shines the eternal light of 

Truth, 
As from a mirror ! All the means of 

action — 
The shapeless masses — the mate- 
rials — 
Lie everywhere about us. What we 

need 
Is the celestial fire to change the flint 
Into transparent crystal, bright and 

clear. 
That fire is genius ! The rude peasant 

sits 
At evening in his smoky cot, and draws 
With charcoal uncouth figures on the 

wall. 
The son of genius comes, foot-sore 

with travel, 



And begs a shelter from the inclement 

night. 
He takes the charcoal from the peas- 
ant's hand. 
And, by the magic of his touch at once 
Transfigured, all its hidden virtues 

shine, 
And, in the eyes of the astonished 

clown, 
It gleams a diamond ! Even thus 

transformed. 
Rude popular traditions and old tales 
Shine as immortal poems, at the 

touch 
Of some poor, houseless, homeless, 

w^andering bard. 
Who had but a night's lodging for his 

pains. 
But there are brighter dreams than 

those of Fame, 
Which are the dreams of Love ! Out 

of the heart 
Rises the bright ideal of these dreams, 
As from some woodland fount a spirit 

rises 
And sinks again into its silent deeps, 
Ere the enamoured knight can touch 

her robe ! 
'T is this ideal that the soul of man, 
Like the enamoured knight beside the 

fountain. 
Waits for upon the margin of Life's 

stream ; 
Waits to behold her rise from the dark 

waters, 
Clad in a mortal shape ! Alas ! how 

many 
Must wait in vain ! The stream flows 

evermore. 
But from its silent deeps no spirit 

rises ! 
Yet I, born under a propitious star. 
Have found the bright ideal of my 

dreams. 
Yes ! she is ever with me. I can feel. 
Here, as I sit at midnight and alone, 
Her gentle breathing ! on my breast 

can feel 
The pressure of her head ! God's 

benison 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



71 



Rest ever on it ! Close those beau- 
teous eyes, 

Sweet Sleep ! and all the flowers that 
bloom at night 

With balmy lips breathe in her ears 
my name! 
\_Gradually sinks asleep^ 

ACT II. 

Scene I. Preciosa's chamber. 
Morning. Preciosa ^;z<a^ Angelica, 

Pre. Why will you go so soon? 
Stay yet awhile. 
The poor too often turn away unheard 
From hearts that shut against them 

with a sound 
That will be heard in heaven. Pray, 

tell me more 
Of your adversities. Keep nothing 

from me. 
What is your landlord's name ? 

A7ig. The Count of Lara. 

Pre. The Count of Lara ? O, be- 
ware that man ! 
Mistrust his pity, — hold no parley 

with him ! 
And rather die an outcast in the streets 
Than touch his gold. 

A7ig. You know him, then ? 

Pre. As much 

As any woman may, and yet be pure. 
As you would keep your name with- 
out a blemish, 
Beware of him ! 

Ang. Alas ! what can I do ? 

I cannot choose my friends. Each 

word of kindness. 
Come whence it may, is welcome to 
the poor. 
Pre. Make me your friend. A girl 
so young and fair 
Should have no friends but those of 

her own sex. 
What is your name ? 

Ang. Angelica. 

Pre. That name 

Was given you, that you might be an 
angel 



To her who bore you ! When your 

infant smile 
Made her home Paradise, you were 

her angel. 
O, be an angel still ! She needs that 

smile. 
So long as you are innocent, fear 

nothing. 
No one can harm you ! I am a poor 

girl, 
Whom chance has taken from the 

public streets. 
I have no other shield than mine own 

virtue. 
That is the charm which has pro- 
tected me ! 
Amid a thousand perils, I have worn 

it 
Here on my heart ! It is my guardian 
angel. 
Ajig. [rising'] . I thank you for this 

counsel, dearest lady. 
Pre. Thank me by following it. 
Ang. Indeed I will. 

Pre. Pray, do not go. I have 

much more to say. 
Ang. My mother is alone. I dare 

not leave her. 
Pre. Some other time, then, when 
we meet again. 
You must not go away with words 
alone. 

^Gives her a ptirse.~\ 
Take this. Would it were more. 
A7tg. I thank you, lady. 

Pre. No thanks. To-morrow 
come to me again. 
I dance to-night, — perhaps for the 

last time. 
But what I gain, I promise shall be 

yours. 
If that can save you from the Count 
of Lara. 
A7tg. O, my dear lady ! how shall 
I be grateful 
For so much kindness ? 

Pre. I deserve no thanks. 

Thank Heaven, not me. 

Ang. Both Heaven and you. 

Pre. Farewell. 



72 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



Remember that you come again to- 
morrow. 
Aug. I will. And may the blessed 

Virgin guard you, 
And all good angels. \_Exii. 

Pre. May they guard thee too, 

And all the poor ; for they have need 

of angels. 
Now bring me, dear Dolores, my 

basquiha, 
My richest maja dress, — my dancing 

dress, 
And my most precious jewels ! Make 

me look 
Fairer than night e'er saw me ! I 've 

a prize 
To win this day, worthy of Preciosa ! 

\_Eiiter Beltran Cruzt^do.] 

Cr7(2. Ave Maria ! 
Pre. O God ! my evil genius ! 

What seekest thou here to-day ? 
Cruz. Thyself, — my child. 

Pre. What is thy will with me ? 
Cruz. Gold ! gold ! 

Pre. I gave thee yesterday ; 1 have 

no more. 
Cruz. The gold of the Busne, — 

give me his gold ! 
Pre. I gave the last in charity to- 
day. 
Cruz, That is a foolish lie. 
Pre. It is the truth. 

Cruz. Curses upon thee ! Thou 
art not my child ! 
Hast thou given gold away, and not 

to me ? 
Not to thy father ? To whom, then ? 
Pre.. To one 

Who needs it more. 

Cruz. No one can need it more. 
Pre. Thou art not poor. 
Cruz. What, 1, Vv^ho lurk about 

In dismal suburbs and unwholesome 

lanes ; 
I, who am housed worse than the gal- 
ley slave, 
I, who am fed worse than the ken- 
nelled hound, 



I, who am clothed in rags, — Beltran 

Cruzado, — 
Not poor! 

Pre. Thou hast a stout heart 

and strong hands. 
Thou canst supply thy wants ; what 

wouldst thou more ? 
Cruz. The gold of the Busne ! give 

me his gold ! 
Pre. Beltran Cruzado ! hear me 

once for all. 
I speak the truth. So long as I had 

gold, 
I gave it to thee freely, at all times. 
Never denied thee ; never had a wish 
But to fulfil thine own. Now go in 

peace ! 
Be merciful, be patient, and, ere long, 
Thou shalt have more. 

Cruz. And if I have it not, 

Thou shalt no longer dwell here in 

rich chambers. 
Wear silken dresses, feed on dainty 

food. 
And live in idleness ; but go with me, 
Dance the Romalis in the public 

streets, 
And wander wild again o'er field and 

fell; 
For here we stay not long. 

Pre. What ! march again ? 

Cruz. Ay, with all speed. I hate 

the crowded town ! 
I cannot breathe shut up within its 

gates ! 
Air, — I want air, and sunshine, and 

blue sky. 
The feeling of the breeze upon my 

face. 
The feeling of the turf beneath my 

feet, 
And no walls but the far-off" mountain 

tops. 
Then I am free and strong, — once 

more myself, 
Beltran Cruzado, Count of the Cales ! 
Pre. God speed thee on thy 

march ! — I cannot go. 
Cruz. Remember who I am, and 

who thou art I 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



73 



Be silent and obey ! Yet one thing 

more. 
Bartolome Romdn — 

Pre. [with euiotioii] . O, I beseech 

thee ! 
If my obedience and blameless life, 
If my humility and meek submission 
In all things hitherto, can move in thee 
One feeling of compassion ; if thou 

art 
Indeed my father, and canst trace in 

me 
One look of her who bore me, or one 

tone 
That doth remind thee of her, let it 

plead 
In my behalf, who am a feeble girl. 
Too feeble to resist, and do not force 

me 
To wed that man ! I am afraid of 

him ! 
I do not love him ! On my knees I 

beg thee 
To use no violence, nor do in haste 
What cannot be undone ! 

Crziz. O child, child, child, 

Thou hast betrayed thy secret, as a 

bird 
Betrays her nest, by striving to con- 
ceal it. 
I will not leave thee here in the great 

city 
To be a grandee's mistress. Make 

thee ready 
To go with us ; and until then re- 
member 
A watchful eye is on thee. [Eiz'L 

Pre. Woe is me ! 

I have a strange misgiving in my 

heart ! 
But that one deed of charity I '11 do. 
Befall what may ; they cannot take 

that from me." {_Exit. 

Scene II. A room in the k.^(m- 
bisuof's palace. 77/^ Archbishop 
a7id a Cardinal seated. 

Arch. Knowing how near it 
touched the public morals, 



And that our age is grown corrupt 

and rotten 
By such excesses, we have sent to 

Rome, 
Beseeching that his Holiness would 

aid 
In curing the gross surfeit of the time. 
By seasonable stop put here in Spain 
To bull-fights and lewd dances on the 

stage. 
All this you know. 

Card. Know and approve. 

Arch. And farther 

That, by a mandate from his Hohness, 
The first have been suppressed. 

Card. 1 trust forever ; 

It was a cruel sport. 

Arch. A barbarous pastime, 

Disgraceful to the land that calls itself 
Most Catholic and Christian. 

Card. Yet the people 

Murmur at this ; and, if the public 

dances 
Should be condemned upon too slight 

occasion. 
Worse ills might follow than the ills 

we cure. 
As Panem et Cir censes was the cry, 
Among the Roman populace of old. 
So Pan y Toros is the cry in Spain. 
Hence I would act advisedly herein ; 
And therefore have induced your 

Grace to see 
These national dances, efe we inter- 
dict them. 

\_Enter a Servant. '\ 
Ser. 

her the musicians 
Your Grace was pleased to order, wait 

without. 
Arch. Bid them come in. Now 

shall your eyes behold 
In what angelic yet voluptuous shape 
The Devil came to tempt Saint 

Anthony. 

\Enter Preciosa, with a mantle 
thrown over her head. She ad- 
vances slowly., in a 7nodest, half- 
timid attitnde.~\ 



74 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



Card. \aside\ . O, what a fair and 
ministering angel 
Was lost to heaven when this sweet 
woman fell ! 
Pre. [Jcneelijtg before the Arch- 
bishop] . I have obeyed the 
order of your Grace. 
If I intrude upon your better hours, 
1 proffer this excuse, and here beseech 
Your holy benediction. 

Arch. May God bless thee, 

And lead thee to a better life. Arise. 
Card. \aside'\ . Her acts are mod- 
est and her words discreet! 
I did not look for this ! Come hither, 

child. 
Is thy name Preciosa? 

Pre. Thus am I called. 

Card. That is a Gipsy name. 

Who is thy father ? 
Pre. Beltran Cruzado, Count of 

the Cales. 
Arch. 1 have a dim remembrance 
of that man. 
He was a bold and reckless character, 
A sunburnt Ishmael ! 

Card. Dost thou remember 

Thy earlier days ? 

Pre. Yes ; by the Darro's side 

My childhood passed. I can re- 
member still 
The river, and the mountains capped 

with snow ; 
The villages, where, yet a little 

child, 
I told the traveller"'s fortune in the 

street ; 
The smuggler's horse, the brigand 

and the shepherd. 
The march across the moor ; the halt 

at noon ; 
The red fire of the evening camp, that 

lighted 
The forest where we slept ; and, far- 
ther back. 
As in a dream or m some former life. 
Gardens and palace walls. 

Arch. T is the Alhambra, 

Under whose towers the Gipsy camp 
was pitched. 



But the time wears ; and we would 
see thee dance. 
Pre. Your Grace shall be obeyed. 

\She lays aside her mantilla. The 
viusic of the cachncha is played., and 
the dance begins. The Archbishop 
and the Cardinal look on with 
gravity aiid an occasional frow?i ; 
then make signs to each other ; and, 
as the dance continues, become more 
and more pleased and excited ; and 
at length rise from their seats, throw 
their caps in the air, and ap 
vehemently as the scene closes. \ 

S CENE III. The Prado . A lofig av- 
enue of trees leading to the gate of 
Atocha. On the right the dome and 
spires of a convent. A fountain. 
Eve?zi7ig. Don Carlos and Hy- 
POLITO meeting. 

Carlos. Hola ! good evening, Don 

Hypolito. 
Hyp. And a good evening to my 
friend, Don Carlos. 
Some lucky star has led my steps this 

way. 
I was in search of you. 

Carlos. Command me always. 

Hyp. Do you remember, in Que- 
vedo's Dreams, 
The miser, who, upon the Day of 

Judgment, 
Asks if his money-bags would rise ? 

Carlos. I do ; 

But what of that ? 

Hyp. I am that wretched man. 

Carlos. You mean to tell me yours 

have risen empty ? 
Hyp. And amen ! said my Cid 

Campeador. 
Carlos. Pray, how much need you ? 
Hyp. Some half dozen ounces, 

Which, with due interest — 

Carlos [giving his purse]. What, 
am I a Jew, 
To put my moneys out at usury? 
Here is my purse. 
Hyp. Thank you. A pretty purse, 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



75 



Made by the hand of some fair 

Madrilena ; 
Perhaps a keepsake. 

Carlos. No, 't is at your service. 
Hyp. Thank you again. Lie 
there, good Chrysostom, 
And with thy golden mouth remind 

me often, 
I am the debtor of my friend. 

Carlos. But tell me, 

Come you to-day from Alcala ? 
Hyp. This moment. 

Carlos. And pray, how fares the 

brave Victorian? 
Hyp. Indifferent well ; that is to 
say, not well. 
A damsel has ensnared him with the 

glances 
Of her dark, roving eyes, as herdsmen 

catch 
A steer of Andalusia with a lazo. 
He is in love. 

Carlos. And is it faring ill 

To be in love? 

Hyp. In his case very ill. 

Carlos. Why so ? 
Hyp. For many reasons. First 
and foremost, 
Because he is in love with an ideal ; 
A creature of his own imagination ; 
A child of air, an echo of his heart, 
And, like a lily on the river floating. 
She floats upon the river of his 
thoughts ! 
Carlos. A common thing with 
poets. But who is 
This floating lily ? For, in fine, some 

woman. 
Some living woman, — not a mere 

ideal, — 
Must wear the outward semblance of 

his thought. 
Who is it ? Tell me. 

Hyp. Well, it is a woman ! 

But, look you, from the coffer of his 

heart 
He brings forth precious jewels to 

adorn her, 
As pious priests adorn some favorite 
saint 



With gems and gold, until at length 

she gleams 
One blaze of glory. Without these, 

you know. 
And the priest's benediction, 'tis a 
doll. 
Carlos. Well, well ! who is this 

doll? 
Hyp. Why, who do you think? 
Carlos. His cousin Violante. 
Hyp. Guess again. 

To ease his laboring heart, in the last 

storm 
He threw her overboard, with all her 
ingots. 
Carlos. I cannot guess ; so tell 

me who it is. 
Hyp. Not I. 
Carlos. Why not ? 

Hyp. \7)iysteriously'\. Why? Be- 
cause Mari Franca 
Was married four leagues out of Sala- 
manca! 
Carlos. Jesting aside, who is it ? 
Hyp. Preciosa. 

Carlos. Impossible ! The Count 
of Lara tells me 
She is not virtuous. 

Hyp. Did I say she was? 

The Roman Emperor Claudius had 

a wife 
Whose name was Messalina, as I 

think ; 
Valeria Messalina was her name. 
But hist ! I see him yonder through 

the trees. 
Walking as in a dream. 

Carlos. He comes this way. 

Hyp. It has been truly said by 
some wise man, 
That money, grief, and love cannot be 
hidden. 

\_Enter Victorian /;/ front.'\ 

Vict. Where'er thy step has passed 

is holy ground : 
These groves are sacred ! I behold 

thee walking 
Under these shadowy trees, where we 

have walked 



76 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



At evening, and I feel thy presence 

now ; 
Feel that the place has taken a charm 

from thee, 
And is forever hallov^^ed. 

Hyp. Mark him well ! 

See how he strides away with lordly 

air, 
Like that odd guest of stone, that 

grim Commander 
Who comes to sup with Juan in the 
play. 
Carlos. What ho ! Victorian ! 
Hyp. Wilt thou sup with us ? 

Vict. THold ! amigos ! Faith, _ 1 
did not see you. 
How fares Don Carlos ? 

Carlos. At your service ever. 

Vict. How is that young and 
green-eyed Gaditana 
That you both wot of ? 

Carlos. Ay, soft, emerald eyes ! 

She has gone back to Cadiz. 

Hyp. Ay de ml ! 

Vict. You are much to blame for 

letting her go back. 

A pretty girl ; and in her tender 

eyes 
Just that soft shade of green we some- 
times see 
In evening skies. 

Hyp. But, speaking of green eyes. 
Are thine green ? 

Vict. Not a whit. Why so ? 
Hyp. . I think 

The slightest shade of green would 

be becoming. 
For thou art jealous. 

Vict. No, I am not jealous. 

Hyp. Thou shouldst be. 
Vict. Why ? 

Hyp. Because thou art in love. 

And they who are in love are always 

jealous. 
Therefore thou shouldst be. 

Vict. Marry, is that all ? 

Farewell ; I am in haste. Farewell, 

Don Carlos. 
Thou sayest I should be jealous ? 
Hyp. Ay, in truth 



I fear there is reason. Be upon thy 

guard. 
I hear it whispered that the Count of 

Lara 
Lays siege to the same citadel. 

Vict. Indeed ! 

Then he will have his labor for his 

pains. 
Hyp. He does not think so, and 

Don Carlos tells me 
He boasts of his success. 

Vict. How 's this, Don Carlos ? 

Carlos. Some hints of it I heard 

from his own lips. 
He spoke but lightly of the lady's 

virtue. 
As a gay man might speak. 

Vict. Death and damnation ! 

I '11 cut his lying tongue out of his 

mouth. 
And throw it to my dog ! But no, 

no, no ! 
This cannot be. You jest, indeed 

you jest. 
Trifle with me no more. For other- 
wise 
We are no longer friends. And so, 

farewell ! \_Exit. 

Hyp. Now what a coil is here ! 

The Avenging Child 
Hunting the traitor Quadros to his 

death. 
And the great Moor Calaynos, when 

he rode 
To Paris for the ears of Oliver, 
Were nothing to him ! O hot-headed 

youth ! 
But come ; we will not follow. Let 

us join 
The crowd that pours into the Prado. 

There 
We shall find merrier company ; I 

see 
The Marialonzos and the Almavivas, 
And fifty fans, that beckon me al- 
ready. \_Exeunt. 

Scene IV. Preciosa's chamber. 
She is sitting., with a book in her 
hand, near a table, on which are 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



77 



flowers. A bird smging in its 
cage. The Count of Lara enters 
behind unperceived. 
Pre. [reads']. 

All are sleeping, weary heart ! 
Thou, thou only sleepless art ! 

Heigho ! I wish Victorian were here. 
I know not what it is makes me so 

restless ! 

[ The bird sings . ] 
Thou Httle prisoner with thy motley 

coat, 
That from thy vaulted, wiry dungeon 

singest, 
Like thee I am a captive, and, like 

thee, 
I have a gentle jailer. Lack-a-day ! 

All are sleeping, weary heart ! 
Thou, thou only sleepless art ! 
All this throbbing, all this aching, 
Evermore shall keep thee waking, 
For a heart in sorrow breaking 
Thinketh ever of its smait ! 

Thou speakest truly, poet ! and me- 

thinks 
More hearts are breaking in this 

world of ours 
Than one would say. In distant 

villages 
And solitudes remote, where winds 

have wafted 
The barbed seeds, of love, or birds of 

passage 
Scattered them in their flight, do they 

take root. 
And grow in silence, and in silence 

perish. 
Who hears the falling of the forest 

leaf? 
Or who takes note of every flower 

that dies ? 
Heigho ! I wish Victorian would 

come. 
Dolores ! 

[Turns to lay down her book, ajtd 
perceives the Count.] 
Ha! 



Lara. Sefiora, pardon me ! 

Pre. How 's this ? Dolores ! 
Lara, Pardon me — 

Pre. Dolores ! 

Lara. Be not alarmed ; I found 
no one in waiting. 
If I have been too bold — 

Pre. [turning her back upon 
hini\ . You are too bold ! 

Retire ! retire, and leave me ! 

Lara. My dear lady, 

First hear me ! I beseech you, let 

me speak ! 
'T is for your good I come. 

Pre. [turning toward him with 
indignation] . 

Begone ! Begone ! 
You are the Count of Lara, but your 

deeds 
Would make the statues of your 

ancestors 
Blush on their tombs ! Is it Castilian 

honor, 
Is it Castilian pride, to steal in here 
Upon a friendless girl, to do her 
wrong ? 

shame ! shame ! shame ! that you, 

a nobleman, 
Should be so little noble in your 

thoughts 
As to send jewels here to win my love. 
And think to buy my honor with 

your gold ! 

1 have no words to tell you how I 

scorn you ! 
Begone ! The sight of you is hate- 
ful to me ! 
Begone, I say ! 

Lara. Be calm ; I will not harm 

you. 
Pre. Because you dare not. 

Lara. I dare anything ! 

Therefore beware ! You are deceived 

in me. 
In this false world, we do not always 

know 
Who are our friends and who our 

enemies. 
We all have enemies, and all need 

friends. 



78 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



Even you, fair Preciosa, here at court 
Have foeSj who seek to wrong you. 

Pre. If to this 

I owe the honor of the present visit, 
You might have spared the coming. 

Having spoken, 
Once more I beg you, leave me to 

myself. 
Lara. I thought it but a friendly 

part to tell you 
What strange reports are current here 

in town. 
For my own self, I do not credit them ; 
But there are many who, not know- 
ing you. 
Will lend a readier ear. 

Pre. There was no need 

That you should take upon yourself 

the duty 
Of telling me these tales. 

Lara. Malicious tongues 

Are ever busy with your name. 

Pre. Alas ! 

I have no protectors. I am a poor 

girl, 
Exposed to insults and unfeeling jests. 
They wound me, yet I cannot shield 

myself. 
I give no cause for these reports. I 

live 
Retired ; am visited by none. 

Lara. By none? 

O, then, indeed, you are much 

wronged ! 
Pre. How mean you ? 

Lara. Nay, nay ; I will not wound 

your gentle soul 
By the report of idle tales. 

Pre. Speak out ! 

What are these idle tales ? You need 

not spare me. 
Lara. I will deal frankly with you. 

Pardon me ; 
This window, as I think, looks toward 

the street. 
And this into the Prado, does it not? 
In yon high house, beyond the garden 

wall, — 
You see the roof there just above the 

trees, — 



There lives a friend, who told me 

yesterday. 
That on a certain night, — be not 

offended 
If I too plainly speak, — he saw a man 
Climb to your chamber window. You 

are silent ! 
I would not blame you, being young 

and fair — 

\^He tries to embrace her. She starts 
back, and draws a dagger from her 
bosom.'\ 

Pre. Beware ! beware ! I am a . 

Gipsy girl ! 
Lay not your hand upon me. One 

step nearer 
And I will strike ! 

Lara. Pray you, put up 

that dagger. 
Fear not. 
Pre. I do not fear. I have a 

heart 
In whose strength I can trust. 

Lara. Listen to me. 

I come here as your friend, — I am 

your friend, — 
And by a single word can put a stop 
To all those idle tales, and make your 

name 
Spotless as lilies are. Here on my 

knees, 
Fair Preciosa ! on my knees I swear, 
I love you even to madness, and that 

love 
Has driven me to break the rules of 

custom, 
And force myself unasked into your 

presence. 

[Victorian enters behind?;^ 

Pre. Rise, Count of Lara ! That 

is not the place 
For such as you are. It becomes you 

not 
To kneel before me. I am strangely , 

moved 
To see one of your rank thus low and 

humbled ; 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



79 



For your sake I will put aside all 

anger, 
All unkind feeling, all dislike, and 

speak 
In gentleness, as most becomes a 

woman, 
And as my heart now prompts me. 

I no more 
Will hate you, for all hate is painful 

to me. 
But if, without offending modesty 
And that reserve which is a woman's 

glory, 
I may speak freely, I will teach my 

heart 
To love you. 

Lara. O sweet angel ! 
Pre. Ay, in truth. 

Far better than you love yourself or 

me. 
Lara. Give me some sign of this, 

— the slightest token. 
Let me but kiss your hand ! 

Pre. Nay, come no nearer. 

The words I utter are its sign and 

token. 
Misunderstand me not ! Be not de- 
ceived ! 
The love wherewith I love you is not 

such 
As you would offer me. For you 

come here 
To take from me the only thing I 

have. 
My honor. You are wealthy, you have 

friends 
And kindred, and a thousand pleasant 

hopes 
That fill your heart with happiness ; 

but I 
Am poor, and friendless, having but 

one treasure. 
And you would take that from me, 

and for what ? 
To flatter your own vanity, and make 

me 
What you would most despise. O 

Sir, such love, 
That seeks to harm me, cannot be 

true love. 



Indeed it cannot. But my love for you 
Is of a different kind. It seeks your 

good. 
It is a holier feeling. It rebukes 
Your earthly passion, your unchaste 

desires. 
And bids you look into your heart, 

and see 
How you do wrong that better nature 

in you, 
And grieve your soul with sin. 

Lara. I swear to you 

I would not harm you; I would only 

love you. 
I would not take your honor, but 

restore it. 
And in return I ask but some slight 

mark 
Of your affection. If indeed you love 

me. 
As you confess you do, O let me thus 
With this embrace — 

Vict, {rushing forward']. Hold! 
hold ! This is too much. 
What means this outrage? 

Lara. First, what right have you 
To question thus a nobleman of Spain ? 
Vict. I too am noble, and you are 
no more ! 
Out of my sight ! 

Lara. Are you the master here ? 
Vict. Ay, here and elsewhere, when 
the wrong of others 
Gives me the right ! 

Pre. [to Lara]. Go! I beseech 

you, go ! 
Vict. I shall have business with 

you, Count, anon ! 
Lara. You cannot come too 
soon ! [Exit. 

Pre. Victorian ! 

we have been betrayed ! 

Vict. Ha ! ha ! betrayed ! 

T is I have been betrayed, not we ! 
— not we ! 
Pre. Dost thou imagine — 
Vict. I imagine nothing ; 

1 see how 't is thou whilest the time 

away 
When I am gone ! 



8o 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



Pre. O speak not in that tone ! 
It wounds me deeply. 

Vict. ''T was not meant to flatter. 
Pre. Too well thou knowest the 
presence of that man 
Is hateful to me 1 

Vict. Yet I saw thee stand 

And listen to him, when he told his 
love. 
Pre. I did not heed his words. 
Vict. Indeed thou didst, 

And answeredst them with love. 
Pre. Hadst thou heard all — 

Vict. I heard enough. 
Pre. Be not so angry with me. 

Vict. I am not angry ; I am very 

calm. 
Pre. If thou wilt let me speak — 
Vict. Nay, say no more. 

I know too much already. Thou art 

false ! 
I do not like these Gipsy marriages ! 
Where is the ring I gave thee? 

Pre. In my casket. 

Vict. There let it rest ! I would 
not have thee wear it ; 
I thought thee spotless, and thou art 
polluted ! 
Pre. I call the heavens to wit- 
ness — 
Vict. Nay, nay, nay ! 

Take not the name of Heaven upon 

thy lips ! 
They are forsworn ! 

Pre. Victorian ! dear Victorian ! 
Vict. I gave up all for thee ; my- 
self, my fame. 
My hopes of fortune, ay, my very 

soul! 
And thou hast been my ruin ! Now, 

go on ! 
Laugh at my folly with thy paramour. 
And, sitting on the Count of Lara's 

knee. 
Say what a poor, fond fool Victorian 

was ! 
\^He casts her fro77i him and rushes 
ont.'\ 
Pre. And this from thee ! 
\Scetie closes.'] 



Scene V. The Count of Lara's 
rooms. Enter the Count. 

Lara. There 's nothing in this 
world so sweet as love. 

And next to love the sweetest thing 
is hate ! 

I 've learned to hate, and therefore am 
revenged. 

A silly girl to play the prude with me ! 

The fire that I have kindled — 

\_Enter Francisco.] 

Well, Francisco, 
What tidings from Don Juan? 

Fran. Good, my lord ; 

He will be present. 

Lara. And the Duke of Lermos? 
Fran. Was not at home. 
Lara. How with the rest? 

Fran. I 've found 

The men you wanted. They will all 

be there, 
And at the given signal raise a whirl- 
wind 
Of such discordant noises, that the 

dance 
Must cease for lack of music. 

Lara. Bravely done. 

Ah ! little dost thou dream, sweet 

Preciosa, 
What lies in wait for thee. Sleep 

shall not close 
Thine eyes this night ! Give me my 
cloak and sword. \_Exeunt. 

Scene VI. A retired spot beyond 
the city gates. Enter Victo- 
rian and Hypolito. 

Vict. O shame ! O shame ! Why 

do I walk abroad 
By daylight, when the very sunshine 

mocks me. 
And voices and familiar sights and 

sounds 
Cry, " Hide thyself! " O what a thin 

partition 
Doth shut out from the curious world 

the knowledge 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



Of evil deeds that have been done in 

darkness ! 
Disgrace has many tongues. My 

fears are windows, 
Through which all eyes seem gazing. 

Every face 
Expresses some suspicion of my 

shame, 
And in derision seems to smile at 

me ! 
Hyp. Did I not caution thee ? 

Did I not tell thee 
I was but half persuaded of her 

virtue ? 
Vict. And yet, Hypolito, we may 

be wrong, 
We may be over-hasty in condemn- 

ing! 
The Count of Lara is a cursed villain. 
Hyp. And therefore is she cursed, 

loving him. 
Vict. She does not love him ! 

'T is for gold ! for gold ! 
Hyp. Ay, but remember, in the 

public streets 
He shows a golden ring the Gipsy 

gave him, 
A serpent with a ruby in its mouth. 
Vict. She had that ring from me ! 

God ! she is false ! 
But I will be revenged ! The hour is 

passed. 
Where stays the coward ? 

Hyp. Nay, he is no coward ; 

A villain, if thou wilt, but not a coward. 
I Ve seen him play with swords ; it is 

his pastime. 
And therefore be not over-confident ; 
He '11 task thy skill anon. Look, here 

he comes. 

\Enter Lara, folloived by Fran- 
cisco.] 

Lara. Good evening, gentlemen. 
Hyp. Good evening, Count. 

La?' a. I trust I have not kept you 

long in waiting. 
Vict. Not long, and yet too long. 

Are you prepared ? 
Lara. I am. 



Hyp. It grieves me much to see 
this quarrel 
Between you, gentlemen. Is there no 

way 
Left open to accord this difference, 
But you must make one with your 
swords ? 
Vict. No ! none ! 

I do entreat thee, dear Hypolito, 
Stand not between me and my foe. 

Too long 
Our tongues have spoken. Let these 

tongues of steel 

End our debate. Upon your guard, 

Sir Count ! 

\TIiey fight. Victorian disarms 

the Count.] 

Your life is mine ; and what shall now 

withhold me 
From sending your vile soul to its 
account? 
Lara. Strike ! strike ! 
Vict. You are 

disarmed. I will not kill you. 
I will not murder you. Take up your 

sword. 
[Francisco hands the Count his 
sword, and Hypolito interposes. '\ 
Hyp. Enough ! Let it end here ! 
The Count of Lara 
Has shown himself a brave man, and 

Victorian 
A generous one, as ever. Now be 

friends. 
Put up your swords ; for, to speak 

frankly to you, 
Your cause of quarrel is too slight a 

thing 
To move you to extremes. 

Lara. I am content. 

I sought no quarrel. A few hasty 

words, 
Spoken in the heat of blood, have led 
to this. 
Vict. Nay, something more than 

that. 
Lara. I understand you. 
Therein I did not mean to cross your 
path. 



82 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



To me the door stood open, as to 

others. 
But, had I known the girl belonged 

to you, 
Never would I have sought to win her 

from you. 
The truth stands now revealed; she 

has been false 
To both of us. 

Vict. Ay, false as hell itself ! 

Lara. In truth I did not seek her ; 
she sought me ; 
And told me how to win her, telling 

me 
The hours when she was oftenest left 
alone. 
Vict. Say, can you prove this to 
me? O, pluck out 
These awful doubts, that goad me 

into madness ! 
Let me know all ! all ! all ! 

Lara. You shall know all. 

Here is my page, who was the mes- 
senger 
Between us. Question him. Was 

it not so, 
Francisco ? 

Fran. Ay, my lord. 
Lara. If farther proof 

Is needful, I have here a ring she gave 
me. 
Vict. Pray let me see that ring ! 
It is the same ! 

[Throws it upon the groimd, and 
tramples upon it.'\ 

Thus may she perish who once wore 

that ring ! 
Thus do I spurn her from me ; do thus 

trample 
Her memory in the dust ! O Count 

of Lara, 
We both have been abused, been 

much abused ! 
1 thank you for your courtesy and 

frankness. 
Though, like the surgeon's hand, 

yours gave me pain, 
Yet it has cured my blindness, and I 

thank you. 



1 now can see the folly I have done. 
Though 't is, alas ! too late. So fare 

you well ! 
To-night I leave this hateful town 

forever. 
Regard me as your friend. Once 

more, farewell ! 
Hyp. Farewell, Sir Count. 

\_Exeunt Victorian and Hypolito. 

Lara. Farewell ! farewell ! 

Thus have I cleared the field of my 

worst foe ! 
I have none else to fear ; the fight is 

done, 
The citadel is stormed, the victory 
won ! 

\_Exit with Francisco. | 

Scene VII. A lane in the siiburbs. 
Night. Enter Cruzado and Bar- 

TOLOME. 

Cruz. And so, Bartolome, the 
expedition failed. But where wast 
thou for the most part? 

Bart. In the Guadarrama moun- 
tains, near San Ildefonso. 

Cruz. And thou bringest nothing 
back with thee ? Didst thou rob no 
one? 

Bart. There was no one to rob, 
save a party of students from Segovia, 
who looked as if they would rob us ; 
and a jolly little friar, who had noth- \ 
ing in his pockets but a missal and a 
loaf of bread. 

Cruz. Pray, then, what brings thee 
back to Madrid ? 

Bart. First tell me what keeps thee 
here ? 

Cruz. Preciosa. 

Bart. And she brings me back. 
Hast thou forgotten thy promise? 

Cruz. The two years are not passed 
yet. Wait patiently. The girl shall 
be thine. 

Bart. I hear she has a Busne lover. 

Cruz. That is nothing. 

Bart. I do not like it. I hate him, 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



83 



— thesonof a Busne harlot. He goes 
in and out, and speaks with her alone, 
and I must stand aside, and wait his 
pleasure. 

C?-uz. Be patient, I say. Thou 
shalt have thy revenge. When the 
time comes, thou shalt waylay him. 

Bart. Meanwhile, show me her 
house. 

Cruz. Come this way. But thou 
wilt not find her. She dances at the 
play to-night. 

Bart, No matter. Show me the 
house. {_Exeimt. 

Scene VIII. The Theatre. The or- 
chestra plays the cachucha. Sound 
of castanets behind the scenes. The 
curtaifi rises, and discovers Pre- 
CIOSA in the attitude of coin7nencing 
the dance. The cachucha. Tuimdt ; 
hisses ; cries of " Brava I " and 
" Afuera ! " She falters and pauses. 
The 7nusic stops. General confu- 
sion. Vkeciosa faints . 

Scene IX. The Count of Lara's 
chambers. Lara and his friends 
at supper. 

Lara. So, Caballeros, once more 
many thanks ! 
You have stood by me bravely in this 

matter. 
Pray fill your glasses. 

fuan. Did you mark, Don Luis, 
How pale she looked, when first the 

noise began. 
And then stocrd still, with her large 

eyes dilated ! 
Her nostrils spread ! her lips apart ! 

her bosom 
Tumultuous as the sea ! 

Luis. I pitied her. 

Lara. Her pride is humbled ; and 
this very night 
I mean to visit her. 
fuan. Will you serenade her? 

Lara. No music ! no more music ! 

I Luis. Why not music? 

It softens many hearts. 



Lara. Not in the humor 

She now is in. Music would madden 
her. 
fuan. Try golden cymbals. 
Luis. Yes, try Don Dinero, 

A mighty wooer is your Don Dinero. 
Lara. To tell the truth, then, I 
have bribed her maid. 
But, Cabal leros, you dislike this wine. 
A bumper and away, for the night 

wears. 
A health to Preciosa ! 

\^They rise and drink.'\ 
All. Preciosa. 

Lara \Jiolding up his glass']. Thou 
bright and flaming minister of 
Love ! 
Thou M'onderful magician ! who hast 

stolen 
My secret from me, and mid sighs of 

passion 
Caught from my lips, with red and 

fiery tongue. 
Her precious name ! O never more 

henceforth 
Shall mortal lips press thine; and 

never more 
A mortal name be whispered in thine 

ear. 
Go ! keep my secret ! 
{Drinks atid dashes the goblet down P^ 
fuan. It el miss a est I 

{Scene closes.'] 

Scene X . Street and garden wall. 
Night. Enter Cruzado and Bar- 

TOLOME. 

Cruz. This is the garden wall, and 
above it, yonder, is her house. The 
window in which thou seest the light 
is her window. But we will not go in 
now. 

Bart. Why not? 

C7-UZ. Because she is not at home. 

Bart. No matter; we can wait. 
But how is this ? The gate is bolted. 
{Sound of guitars and voices in a 
7ieighboring street.] Hark ! There 
comes her lover with his infernal sere- 
nade ! Hark ! 



84 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



SONG. 

Goodnight! Good night, beloved! 

I come to watch o'er thee ! 
To be near thee, — to be near thee, 

Alone is peace for me. 

Thine eyes are stars of morning, 
Thy lips are crimson flowers 1 

Goodnight! (}ood night, beloved, 
While I count the weary hours. 

Criiz. They are not coming this 
way, 

Bart. Wait, they begin again. 

SONG \co7nmg nearer '[. 

Ah! thou moon that shinest 

Argent-clear above ! 
All night long enlighten 

My sweet lady-love ! 

Moon that shinest. 
All night long enlighten ! 

Bart. Woe be to him, if he comes 
this way ! 

Cruz. Be quiet, they are passing 
down the street. 

SONG {dying awayl. 

The nuns in the cloister 

Sang to each other ; 
For so many sisters 

Is there not one brother! 
Ay, for the partridge, mother! 

The cat has run away with the partridge ! 
Puss ! puss ! puss ! 

Bart. Follow that ! follow that ! 
Come with me. Puss ! puss ! 
\Exeunt, On the opposite side enter 
the Count of Lara ajid gejitlemen, 
with Francisco.] 
Lara. The gate is fast. Over the 
wall, Francisco, 
And draw the bolt. There, so, and 

so, and over. 
Now, gentlemen, come in, and help 

me scale 
Yon balcony. How now ? Her light 

still burns. 
Move warily. Make fast the gate, 

Francisco. 
\Exeunt. Reenter Cruzado and 
Bartolome.J 



Bart. They went in at the gate. 
Hark ! I hear them in the garden. 
\_'rriesthegate.'\ Bolted again! Vive 
Cristo ! Follow me over the wall. 
[They climb the wall.~\ 

Scene XL VKKCiosA'sbed-chajyiber. 
Midnight. She is sleeping in an 
ann-cJiair., in an undress. Dolo- 
res watchijig her. 

Dol. She sleeps at last ! 
\Opens the window and listens. ~\ 

All silent in the street, 
And in the garden. Hark ! 

Pre. [in her sleep']. I must go 
hence ! 
Give me my cloak ! 

Dol. He comes ! I hear his foot- 
steps ! 
Pre. Go tell them that I cannot 
dance to-night ; 
I ain too ill ! Look at me ! See the 

fever 
That burns upon my cheek ! I must 

go hence. 
I am too v/eak to dance. 

\Signal from the garden.] 
Dol. \J^rom the window] . Who 's 

there ? 
Voice [from below], A friend. 
Dol. I will undo the door. Wait 

till I come. 
Pre. I must go hence. I pray you 
do not harm me ! 
Shame ! shame ! to treat a feeble 

woman thus ! 
Be you but kind, I will do all things 

for you. 
I 'm ready now, — give me my casta- 
nets. 
Where is Victorian ? Oh, those hate- 
ful lamps ! 
They glare upon me like an evil eye. 
I cannot stay. Hark ! how they 

mock at me ! 
They hiss at me like serpents ! Save 
me, save me ! 

\_She wakes.] % 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



85 



How late is it, Dolores ? 

Dol. It is midnight. 

Pre. We must be patient. Smooth 
this pillow for me. 
\_She sleeps again. Noise from the 
garden., and voices.~\ 
Voice. Muera ! 

Afwther Voice. O villains ! villains ! 
Lara. So ! have at you ! 

Voice. Take that ! 
Lara. O, I am wounded ! 

Dol. {shutting the window']. Jesu 
Maria I 

ACT III. 

Scene I. A cross-road through a 
wood. In the background a distant 
village spire. Victorian and 
Hypolito, as travellijig students, 
with guit ars, sitting U7ider the trees. 
Hypolito plays and sings. 

SONG. 

Ah, Love ! 
Perjured, false, treacherous Love! 

Enemy 
Of all that mankind may not rue ! 

Most untrue 
To him who keeps most faith with thee. 

Woe is me! 
The falcon has the eyes of the dove. 

Ah, Love! 
Perjured, false, treacherous Love ! 

Vict. Yes, Love is ever busy with 

his shuttle, 
Is ever weaving into life's dull warp 
Bright, gorgeous flowers and scenes 

Arcadian ; 
Hanging our gloomy prison-house 

about 
With tapestries, that make its walls 

dilate 
In never ending vistas of delight. 
Hyp. Thinking to walk in those 

Arcadian pastures, 
Thou hast run thy noble head against 

the wall. 

SONG \contlnued\. 
Thy deceits 
Give us clearly to comprehend, 



Whither tend 
All thy pleasures, all thy sweets ! 

"I'hey are cheats. 
Thorns below and flowers above. 

Ah, Love! 
Perjured, lalse, treacherous Love ! 

Vict. A very pretty song. I thank 

thee for it. 
Hyp. It suits thy case. 
Vict. Indeed, I think it does. 

What wise man wrote it? 

Hyp. Lopez Maldonado. 

Vict. In truth, a pretty song. 
Hyp. With much truth in it. 

I hope thou wilt profit by it ; and in 

earnest 
Try to forget this lady of thy love. 
Vict. I will forget her ! All dear 
recollections 
Pressed in my heart, like flowers within 

a book, 
Shall be torn out, and scattered to 

the winds ! 
I will forget her ! But perhaps here- 
after, 
When she shall learn how heartless 

is the world, 
A voice within her will repeat my 

name, 
And she will say, "He was indeed 

my friend ! " 
O, would I were a soldier, not a 

scholar, 
That the loud march, the deafening 

beat of drums, 
The shattering blast of the brass- 
throated trumpet, 
The din of arms, the onslaught and 

the storm, 
And a swift death, might make me 

deaf forever 
To the upbraidings of this foolish 
heart ! 
Hyp. Then let that foolish heart 
upbraid no more ! 
To conquer love, one need but will 
to conquer. 
Vict. Yet, good Hypolito, it is in 
vain 
I throw into Oblivion's sea the sword 



86 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



That pierces me ; for, like Excalibar, 
With gemmed and flashing hilt, it 

will not sink. 
There rises from below a hand that 

grasps it. 
And waves it in the air ; and wailing 

voices 
Are heard along the shore. 

Hyp. And yet at last 

Down sank Excalibar to rise no more. 
This is not well. In truth, it vexes 

me. 
Instead of whistling to the steeds of 

Time, 
To make them jog on merrily with 

life's burden. 
Like a dead weight thou hangest on 

the wheels. 
Thou art too young, too full of lusty 

health 
To talk of dying. 

Vict. Yet I fain would die ! 

To go through life, unloving and 

unloved ; 
To feel that thirst and hunger of the 

soul 
We cannot still ; that longing, that 

wild impulse, 
And struggle after something we have 

not 
And cannot have ; the effort to be 

strong ; 
And, like the Spartan boy, to smile, 

and smile. 
While secret wounds do bleed be- 
neath our cloaks ; 
All this the dead feel not, — the dead 

alone ! 
Would I were with them ! 

Hyp. We shall all be soon. 

Vict. It cannot be too soon ; for 

I am weary 
Of the bewildering masquerade of 

Life, 
Where strangers walk as friends, and 

friends as strangers ; 
Where whispers overheard betray 

false hearts ; 
And through the mazes of the crowd 

we chase 



Some form of loveliness, that smiles, 

and beckons. 
And cheats us with fair words, only 

to leave us 
A mockery and a jest ; maddened, — 

confused, — 
Not knowing friend from foe. 

Hyp. Why seek to know? 

Enjoy the merry shrove-tide of thy 

youth ! 
Take each fair mask for what it gives 

itself, 
Nor strive to look beneath it. 

Vict. I confess, 

That were the wiser part. But Hope 

no longer 
Comforts my soul. I am a wretched 

man. 
Much like a poor and shipwrecked 

mariner, 
Who, struggling to climb up into the 

boat, 
Has both his bruised and bleeding 

hands cut off. 
And sinks again into the weltering 

sea. 
Helpless and hopeless ! 

Hyp. Yet thou shalt not perish. 
The strength of thine own arm is thy 

salvation. 
Above thy head, through rifted clouds, 

there shines 
A glorious star. Be patient. Trust 

thy star ! 

[Sound of a village bell in the 
distance.'] 

Vict. Ave Maria! I hear the 
sacristan 

Ringing the chimes from yonder 
village belfry ! 

A solemn sound, that echoes far and 
wide 

Over the red roofs of the cottages, 

And bids the laboring hind a-field, 
the shepherd. 

Guarding his flock, the lonely mule- 
teer, 

And all the crowd in village streets, 
stand still, 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



87 



And breathe a prayer unto the blessed 

Virgin I 
Hyp. Amen ! amen ! Not half a 

league from hence 
The village lies. 

Vict. This path will lead us to it, 
Over the wheat fields, where the 

shadows sail 
Across the running sea, now green, 

now blue. 
And, like an idle mariner on the 

main, 
Whistles the quail. Come, let us 

hasten on. 

\_Exennt. 

Scene II. Public square in the vil- 
lage of Guadarrama. The Ave 
Maria still tolling. A crowd of 
villagers., with their hats in their 
hands., as if in prayer, hi front., a 
group of Gipsies. The bell rings 
a merrier peal. A Gipsy dance. 
Enter Y'ai^cro, followed by Pedro 
Crespo. 

Pan. Make room, ye vagabonds 
and Gipsy thieves ! 

Make room for tne Alcalde and for 
me ! 
Cres. Keep silence all ! I have 
an edict here 

From our most gracious lord, the 
King of Spain, 

Jerusalem, and the Canary Islands, 

Which I shall publish in the market- 
place. 

Open your ears and listen ! 

\Enter the Padre Cura at the door 
of his cottage.'] 

Padre Cura, 
Good day ! and, pray you, hear this 
edict read. 
Padre. Good day, and God be 

with you. Pray, what is it ? 
Cres. An act of banishment against 
the Gipsies ! 
\Agitation and murmurs in the 
crowd.'\ 



Pan. Silence ! 

Cres. [reads'] . '' I hereby order 
and command, 
That the Egyptian and Chaldean 

strangers, 
Known by the name of Gipsies, shall 

henceforth 
Be banished from the realm, as vaga- 
bonds - , 
And beggars ; and if, after seventy 

days. 
Any be found within our kingdom's 

bounds, 
They shall receive a hundred lashes 

each ; 
The second time, shall have their 

ears cut off; 
The third, be slaves for life to him 

who takes them, 
Or burnt as heretics. Signed, I, the 

King." 
Vile miscreants and creatures un- 

baptized ! 
You hear the law ! Obey and dis- 
appear ! 
Pan. And if in seventy days you 
are not gone. 
Dead or alive I make you all my 

slaves. 
[The Gipsies go oid in confusion^ 
showing signs of fear and discon- 
tent. V K^Q.'AO follows .] 
Padre. A righteous law ! A very 
righteous law ! 
Pray you, sit down. 

Cres. I thank you heartily. 

[They seat thenis elves 07i a bench at 
the Padre Cura's door. Sojmd 
of guitars heard at a distance^ ap- 
proaching during the dialogue which 
follows^] 
A very righteous judgment, as you 

say. 
Now tell me, Padre Cura, — you know 

all things, — 
How came these Gipsies into Spain? 
Padre. Why, look you ; 

They came with Hercules from Pal- 
estine, 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



And hence are thieves and vagrants, 

Sir Alcalde, 
As the Simoniacs from Simon Magus. 
And, look you, as Fray Jayme JBleda 

says. 
There are a hundred marks to prove 

a Moor 
Is not a Christian, so H is with the 

Gipsies. 
They never marry, never go to 

mass, 
Never baptize their children, nor keep 

Lent, 
Nor see the inside of a church, — nor 
— nor — 
Cres. Good reasons, good, sub- 
stantial reasons all ! 
No matter for the other ninety-five. 
They should be burnt, I see it plain 

enough, 
They should be burnt. 
\_Enter Victorian and Hypolito 
■ Playing.'] 
Padre. And pray, whom have we 

here ? 
Cres. More vagrants ! By Saint 

Lazarus, more vagrants ! 
Hyp. Good evening, gentlemen ! 

Is this Guadarrama? 
Padre. Yes, Guadarrama, and good 

evening to you. 
Hyp. We seek the Padre Cura of 
the village ; 
And, judging from your dress and 

reverend mien, 
You must be he. 
Padre. I am. Pray, what 's 

your pleasure ? 
Hyp. We are poor students, trav- 
elling in vacation. 
You know this mark ? 
\_Touching the wooden spoon in his 
hat-band.'\ 
Padre \J0yf2illy']. Ay, know it, 

and have worn it. 
Cres. [aside']. Soup-eaters ! by 
the mass ! The worst of va- 
grants ! 
And there 's no law against them. 
Sir, your servant. \_Exit. 



Padre. Your servant, Pedro 

Crespo. 
Hyp. Padre Cura, 

From the first moment I beheld your 

face, 
I said within myself, " This is the 

man ! " 
There is a certain something in your 

looks, 
A certain scholar-like and studious 

something, — 
You understand, — which cannot be 

mistaken ; 
Which marks you as a very learned 

man. 
In fine, as one of us. 

Vict, [aside] . What impudence ! 
Hyp. As we approached, I said 

to my companion, 
" That is the Padre Cura ; mark my 

words ! " 
Meaning your Grace. "The other 

man," said I, 
"W^ho sits so awkwardly upon the 

bench. 
Must be the sacristan." 

Padre. Ah ! said you so ? 

Why, that was Pedro Crespo, the 

alcalde ! 
Hyp. Indeed ! you much astonish 

me ! His air 
Was not so full of dignity and grace 
As an alcalde's should be. 

Padre. That is true. 

He is out of humor with some vagrant 

Gipsies, 
Who have their camp here in the 

neighborhood. 
There is nothing so undignified as 

anger. 
Hyp. The Padre Cura will excuse 

our boldness, 
If, from his well-known hospitality, 
We crave a lodging for the night. 

Padre. I pray you ! 

You do me honor ! I am but too 

happy 
To have such guests beneath my 

humble roof. 
It is not often that I have occasion 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



89 



To speak with scholars ; and Einollit 

mores, 
Nee sinit esse feros, Cicero says. 
Hyp. 'T is Ovid, is it not ? 
Fadre. No, Cicero. 

Hyp. Your grace is right. You 
are the better scholar. 
Now what a dunce was I to think it 

Ovid! 

But hang me if it is not ! \Asider\ 

Padre. Pass this way. 

He was a very great man, was Cicero ! 

Pray you, go in, go in ! no ceremony. 

\_^Exeiuit. 

Scene III. A room in the Padre 
Cura's house. Enter the Padre 
<2;/<^Hypolito. 

Padre. So then, Seiior, you come 
from Alcala. 
I am glad to hear it. It was there I 
studied. 
Hyp. And left behind an honored 
name, no doubt. 
How may I call your Grace ? 

Padre. Geronimo 

De Santillana, at your Honor's ser- 
vice. 
Hyp. Descended from the iMarquis 
Santillana ? 
From the distinguished poet ? 

Padre. From the Marquis, 

Not from the poet. 

Hyp. Why, they were the same. 
Let me embrace you ! O some lucky 

star 
Has brought me hither ! Yet once 

more ! — once more ! 
Your name is ever green in Alcald, 
And our professor, when we are 

unruly. 
Will shake his hoary head, and say, 

" Alas ! 
It was not so in Santillana's time ! " 
Padre. I did not think my name 

remembered there. 
Hyp. More than remembered ; it 

is idolized. 
Padre. Of what professor speak 
you ? 



Hyp. Timoneda. 

Padre. I don't remember any 

Timoneda. 
Hyp. A grave and sombre man, 
whose beetling brow 
Overhangs the rushing current of his 

speech 
As rocks o'er rivers hang. Have you 
forgotten ? 
Padre. Indeed, I have. O, those 
were pleasant days. 
Those college days ! I ne'er shall 

see the like ! 
I had not buried then so many hopes ! 
I had not buried then so many friends ! 
I Ve turned my back on what was then 

before me ; 
And the bright faces of my young com- 
panions 
Are wrinkled like my own, or are no 

more. 
Do you remember Cueva ? 

Hyp. Cueva ? Cueva ? 

Padre. Fool that I am ! He was 

before your time. 

You 're a mere boy, and I am an old 

man. 

Hyp. I should not like to try my 

strength with you. 
Padre. Well, well. But I forget; 
you must be hungry. 
Martina ! ho ! Martina ! 'T is my 
niece. 

\_Enter Martina.] 

Hyp. You may be proud of such 

a niece as that. 

I wish I had a niece. Einollit jnores. 

\_Aside. 

He was a very great man, was Cicero ! 

Your servant, fair Martina. 

Mart. Servant, sir. 

Padre. This gentleman is hungry. 
See thou to it. 
Let us have supper. 

Mart. 'T will be ready soon. 

Padre. And bring a bottle of my 
Val-de-Penas 
Out of the cellar. Stay ; I 'II go my- 
self. 



90 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



Pray you, Seilor, excuse me. \Exit. 

Hyp. Hist! Martina! 

One word with you. Bless me ! what 

handsome eyes ! 
To-day there have been Gipsies in 

the village. 
Is it not so ? 

Mart. There have been Gipsies 

here. 
Hyp. Yes, and they told your 

fortune. 
Mart. \e)}ibarrassed'\. Told my 

fortune ? 
Hyp. Yes, yes ; I know they did. 
Give me your hand. 
I '11 tell you what they said. They 

said, — they said, 
The shepherd boy that loved you was 

a clown, 
And him you should not marry. Was 
it not ? 
Mart, {surprised^. How know you 

that ? 
Hyp. O, I know more than that. 
What a soft, little hand ! And then 

they said, 
A cavalier from court, handsome, and 

tall. 
And rich, should come one day to 

marry you, 
And you should be a lady.* Was it 

not 'i 
He has arrived, the handsome cavalier. 

\Tries to kiss her. She runs off. 
Enter Victorian, with a letter.'] 

Vict. The muleteer has come. 

Hyp. So soon ? 

Vict. I found him 

Sitting at supper by the tavern door, 

And, from a pitcher that he held 

aloft 
His whole arm's length, drinking the 
blood-red wine. 
Hyp. What news from Court ? 
Vict. He brought this letter only. 
\ Reads.] 
O cursed perfidy ! Why did I let 
That lying tomgue deceive me ! 
Precigs^; 



Sweet Preciosa ! how art thou 
avenged ! 
Hyp. What news is this, that 
makes thy cheek turn pale, 

And thy hand tremble ? 

Vict. O, most infamous ! 

The Count of Lara is a damned 
villain ! 
Hyp. That is no news, forsooth. 
Vict. He strove in vain 

To steal from me the jewel of my 
soul. 

The love of Preciosa. Not succeed- 
ing, 

He swore to be revenged ; and set 
on foot 

A plot to ruin her, which has suc- 
ceeded. 

She has been hissed and hooted from 
the stage. 

Her reputation stained by slanderous 
lies 

Too foul to speak of; and, once more 
a beggar. 

She roams a wanderer over God's 
green earth. 

Housing with Gipsies ! 
Hyp. To renew again 

The Age of Gold, and make the shep- 
herd swains 

Desperate with love, like Caspar Gil's 
Diana. 

Redit et Virgo ! 

Vict. Dear Hypolito, 

How have I wronged that meek, con- 
fiding heart ! 

I will go seek for her ; and with my 
tears 

Wash out the wrong I 've done her! 
Hyp. O beware! 

Act not that folly o'er again. 

Vict. Ay, folly. 

Delusion, madness, call it what thou 
wilt, 

I will confess my weakness, — I still 
love her ! 

Still fondly love her ! 

[Enter the Padre Cura.] 
Hyp. Tell us, Padre Cura, 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



91 



Who are these Gipsies in the neigh- 
borhood ? 
Padre. Beltran Cruzado and his 

crew. 
Vict. Kind Heaven, 
I thank thee ! She is found ! is found 
again ! 
Hyp. And have they with them 
a pale, beautiful girl, 
Called Preciosa ? 

Pad?'e. Ay, a pretty girl. 

The gentleman seems moved. 

Hyp. Yes, moved with hunger. 
He is half famished with this long 
day's journey. 
Padre. Then, pray you, come this 
way. The supper waits. 

\Exeimt. 

Scene IV. A post-house on the road 
to Segovia., tiot far from the village 
of Guada?'rama. Enter Chispa, 
cracking a whip and singing the 
cachucha. 

Chis. Halloo ! Don Fulano ! Let 
us have horses, and quickly. Alas, 
poor Chispa ! what a dog's life dost 
thou lead ! I thought, when I left 
my old master Victorian, the student, 
to serve my new master Don Carlos, 
the gentleman, that I, too, should lead 
the life of a gentleman ; should go to 
bed early, and get up late. For when 
the abbot plays cards, what can you 
expect of the friars ? But. in running 
away from the thunder, I have run 
into the lightning. Here I am in 
hot chase after my master and his 
Gipsy girl. And a good becrinning 
of the week it is, as he said who was 
hanged on Monday morning. 

{Enter Don Carlos.] 

Carlos. Are not the horses ready 
yet? 

Chis. I should think not, for the 
hostler seems to be asleep. Ho ! 
within there ! Horses ! horses ! 
horses ! \He knocks at the gate 



with his whip., and enter Mosquito, 
piittijig 071 his jacket. '\ 

Mos. Pray, have a little patience. ' 
I 'm not a musket. 

Chis. Health and pistareens ! 
I 'm glad to see you come on danc- 
ing, padre ! Pray, what's the news ? 

Mos. You cannot have fresh 
horses, because there are none. 

Chis. Cachiporra ! Throw that 
bone to another dog. 
Do I look like your aunt '^. 

Mos. No ; she has a beard. 

Chis. Go to ! Go to ! 

Mos. Are you from Madrid ? 

Chis. Yes ; and going to Estrama- 
dura. Get us horses. 

Mos. What 's the news at Court ? 

Chis. Why, the latest news is, 
that I am going to set up a coach, 
and I have already bought the whip. 

[Strikes him ronnd the legs.'\ 

Mos. Oh ! oh ! you hurt me ! 

Carlos. Enough of this folly. Let 
us have horses. [Gives money to 
Mosquito.] It is almost dark, and 
we are in haste. But tell me, has a 
band of Gipsies passed this way of 
late .? 

Mos. Yes ; and they are still in 
the neighborhood. 

Carlos. And where? 

Mos. Across the fields yonder, in 
the woods near Guadarrama. [Exit. 

Carlos. Now this is lucky. We 
will visit the Gipsy camp. 

Chis. Are you not afraid of the 
evil eye? Have you a stag's horn 
with you? 

Carlos. Fear not. We will pass 
the night at the village. 

Chis. And sleep like the Squires 
of Hernan Daza, nine under one 
blanket. 

Carlos. I hope we may find the 
Preciosa among them. 

Chis. Among the Squires? 

Carlos. No ; among the Gipsies, 
blockhead ! 



92 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



Chis. I hope we may ; for we are 
giving ourselves trouble enough on 
her account. Don't you think so? 
However, there is no catching trout 
without wetting one's trousers. Yon- 
der come the horses. \Exe2iiit. 

Scene V. The Gipsy camp in the 
forest. Night. Gipsies workiftg 
at a forge. Others playing cards 
by the f relight. 

GIPSIES [at the for,^e si/7g\. 

On the top of a mountain I stand, 
With a crown of red gold in my hand, 
Wild Moors come trooping over the lea, 
O how from their fury shall I flee, flee, flee, 
O how from their fury shall I flee ? 

1st Gipsy \j)laying\. Down with 
your John-Dorados, my pigeon. Down 
with your John-Dorados, and let us 
make an end. 

GI PSI ES \at the forge smg\ . 

Loud sang the Spanish cavalier, 

And thus his ditty ran ; 
God send the Gipsy lassie here, 

And not the Gipsy man. 

1st Gipsy [playing]. There you 
are in your morocco. 

2d Gipsy. One more game. The 
Alcalde's doves against the Padre 
Cura's new moon. 

1st Gipsy. Have at you, Chirelin. 

GIPSIES [at the forge singl. 
At midnight, when the moon began 

To show her silver flame, 
There came to him no Gipsy man, 

The Gipsy lassie came. 

[£';^/^r Beltran Cruzado.] 
Crtiz. Come hither, Murcigalleros 
and Rastilleros ; leave work, leave 
play; listen to your orders for the 
night. [Speaking to the right.'] You 
will get you to the village, mark you, 
by the stone cross. 
Gipsies. Ay ! 
Cruz. 1^0 the left] . And you, by 



the pole with the hermit's head upon 
it. 

Gipsies. Ay ! 

Cr2iz. As soon as you see the 
planets are out, in with you, and be 
busy with the ten commandments, 
under the sly, and Saint Martin asleep. 
D' ye hear ? 

Gipsies. Ay ! 

Criiz. Keep your lanterns open, 
and, if you see a gobUn or a papagayo, 
take to your trampers. " Vineyards 
and Dancing John " is the word. Am 
I comprehended ? 

Gipsies. Ay ! ay ! 

Crz^z. Away, then ! 

[Exeunt severally. Cruzado walks 
up the stage and disappears among 
the trees. Enter Preciosa.] 

Pre. How strangely gleams through 

the gigantic trees 
The red light of the forge! Wild, 

beckoning shadows 
Stalk through the forest, ever and 

anon 
Rising and bending with the flickering 

flame, 
Then flitting into darkness ! So 

within me 
Strange hopes and fears do beckon to 

each other. 
My brightest hopes giving dark fears 

a being 
As the light does the shadow. Woe 

is me ! 
How still it is about me, and how 

lonely ! 

[Bartolome rushes in.] 

Bart. Ho ! Preciosa ! 
Pre. O, Bartolomd ! 

Thou here ? 

Bart. Lo ! I am here. 
Pre. Whence comest thou ? 

Bart. From the rough ridges of 
the wild Sierra, 
From caverns in the rocks, from hun- 
ger, thirst, 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



93 



And fever ! Like a wild wolf to the 

sheepfold, 
Come I for thee, my lamb. 

Pre. O touch me not ! 

The Count of Lara's blood is on thy 

hands ! 
The Count of Lara's curse is on thy 

soul ! 
Do not come near me ! Pray, begone 

from here ! 
Thou art in danger ! They have set 

a price 
Upon thy head ! 

Bart. Ay, and I Ve wandered long 
Among the mountains ; and for many 

days 
Have seen no human face, save the 

rough swineherd's. 
The wind and rain have been my sole 

companions. 
I shouted to them from the rocks thy 

name, 
And the loud echo sent it back to me. 
Till I grew mad. I could not stay 

from thee. 
And I am here ! Betray me, if thou 

wilt. 
Pre. Betray thee ? I betray thee ? 
Bart. Preciosa ! 

I come for thee ! for thee I thus brave 

death ! 
Fly with me o'er the borders of this 

realm ! 
Fly with me ! 

Pre. Speak of that no more. 

I cannot. 
I am thine no longer. 

Bart. O, recall the time 

When we were children ! how we 

played together. 
How we grew up together ; how we 

plighted 
Our hearts unto each other, even in 

childhood ! 
Fulfil thy promise, for the hour has 

come. 
I am hunted from the kingdom, like a 

wolf! 
Fulfil thy promise. 

Pre. 'T was my fathers promise, 



Not mine. I never gave my heart to 

thee. 
Nor promised thee my hand ! 

Bart. False tongue of woman ! 
And heart more false ! 

Pre. Nay, listen unto me. 

I will speak frankly. I have never 

loved thee ; 
I cannot love thee. This is not my 

fault, 
It is my destiny. Thou art a man 
Restless and violent. What v^'ouldst 

thou with me, 
A feeble girl, who have not long to 

live. 
Whose heart is broken ? Seek an- 
other wife. 
Better than I, and fairer; and let not 
Thy rash and headlong moods es- 
trange her from thee. 
Thou art unhappy in this hopeless 

passion. 
I never sought thy love; never did 

aught 
To make thee love me. Yet I pity 

thee, 
And most of all I pity thy wild heart, 
That hurries thee to crimes and deeds 

of blood. 
Beware, beware of that. 

Bart. For thy dear sake, 

I will be gentle. Thou shalt teach me 
patience. 
Pre. Then take this farewell, and 
depart in peace. 
Thou must not linger here. 

Bai't. Come, come with me. 

Pre. Hark ! I hear footsteps. 
Bart. I entreat thee, come ! 

Pre. Away ! It is in vain. 
Bart. Wilt thou not come ? 

Pre. Never ! 

Bart. Then woe, eternal 

woe, upon thee. 
Thou shalt not be another's. Thou 
shalt die. \_Exit. 

Pre. All holy angels keep me in 
this hour ! 
Spirit of her who bore me, look upon 
me ! 



94 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



Mother of God, the glorified, protect 

me ! 
Christ and the saints, be merciful 

unto me ! 
Yet why should I fear death ? What 

is it to die ? 
To leave all disappointment, care, 

and sorrow, 
To leave all falsehood, treachery, and 

unkindness, 
All ignominy, suffering, and despair, 
And be at rest forever ! O, dull 

heart, 
Be of good cheer ! When thou shalt 

cease to beat, 
Then shalt thou cease to suffer and 

complain ! 

\Enter Victorian and Hypolito 
behind. ] 

Vict. 'T is she ! Behold, how beau- 
tiful she stands 
Under the tent-like trees ! 

Hyp. A woodland nymph ! 

Vict. I pray thee, stand aside. 
Leave me. 

Hyp. Be wary. 

Do not betray thyself too soon. 

Vict, {disguising his voice] . Hist ! 
Gipsy ! 

Pre. \aside with emotion] . That 
voice ! that voice from heaven ! 

speak again ! 
Who is it calls ? 

Vict. A friend. 

Pre. {aside] . 'T is he ! 'T is he ! 
I thank thee, Heaven, that thou hast 

heard my prayer. 
And sent me this protector ! Now 

be strong, 
Be strong, my heart ! I must dis- 
semble here. 
False friend or true ? 

Vict. A true friend to the true ; 

Fear not; come hither. So; can 

you tell fortunes ? 

Pr^. Not in the dark. Come 

nearer to the fire. 

Give me your hand. It is not crossed, 

1 see. 



Vict, \_pictti7tg a piece of gold into 
her hand]. There is the cross. 
Pre. Is 't silver ? 

Vict. No, 't is gold 

Pre. There's a fair lady at the 
Court, who loves you. 
And for yourself alone. 

Vict. Fie ! the old story ! 

Tell me a better fortune for my 

money ; 
Not this old woman's tale ! 

Pre. You are passionate ; 

And this same passionate humor in 

your blood 
Has marred your fortune. Yes ; I 

see it now ; 
The line of life is crossed by many 

marks. 
Shame ! shame ! O you have wronged 

the maid who loved you ! 
How could you do it "i 

Vict. I never loved a maid ; 

For she I loved was then a maid no 
more. 
Pre. How know you that ? 
Vict. A little bird in the air 

Whispered the secret. 

Pre. There, take back your gold ! 
Your hand is cold, like a deceiver's 

hand ! 
There is no blessing in its charity ! 
Make her your wife, for you have 

been abused ; 
And you shall mend your fortunes, 
mending hers. 
Vict, [aside]. How like an angel's 
speaks the tongue of woman, 
When pleading in another's cause 

her own ! — 
That is a pretty ring upon your finger. 
Pray give it me. {Tries to take the 
ring.] 
Pre. No ; never from my hand 

Shall that be taken ! 

Vict. Why, 't is but a ring. 

I '11 give it back to you ; or, if I keep it, 

Will give you gold to buy you twenty 

such. 

Pre. Why would you have this 

ring? 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



95 



Vict. A traveller's fancy, 

A whim, and nothing more. I wouid 

fain keep it 
As a memento of the Gipsy camp 
In Guadarrama, and the fortune-teller 
Who sent me back to wed a widowed 

maid. 
Pray, let me have the ring. 

Pre No, never ! never ! 

I will not part with it, even when I 

die ; 
But bid my nurse fold my pale fingers 

thus. 
That it may not fall from them. 'T is 

a token 
Of a beloved friend, who is no more. 
Vict. How ? dead.? 

Pre. Yes ; dead to me ; and worse 

than dead. 
He is estranged ! And yet I keep this 

ring. 
I will rise with it from my grave here- 
after, 
To prove to him that I was never 

false. 
Vict, [aside'] . Be still, my swelling 

heart ! one moment, still ! 
Why, 't is the folly of a love-sick girl. 
Come, give it me, or I will say 't is 

mine, 
And that you stole it. 

Pre. O, you will not dare 

To utter such a fiendish lie ! 

Vict. Not dare ? 

Look in ray face, and say if there is 

aught 
I have not dared, I would not dare, for 

thee! 

i [S^e rushes into his arms.'] 

Pre. T is thou ! \ is thou ! Yes ; 

yes ; my heart's elected ! 
My dearest-dear Victorian ! my soul's 

heaven ! 
Where hast thou been so long ? Why 

didst thou leave me ? 
Vict. Ask me not now, my dearest 

Preciosa. 
Let me forget we ever have been 

parted ! 



Pre. Hadst thou not come — 
Vict. 1 pray thee, 

do not chide me. 
Pre. I should have perished here 

among these Gipsies. 
Vict, t orgive me, sweet ! for what 

I made thee suifer. 
Think'st thou this heart could feel a 

moment's joy. 
Thou being absent ? O, believe it 

not! 
Indeed, since that sad hour I have not 

slept, 
For thinking of the wrong I did to 

thee ! 
Dost thou forgive me ? Say, wilt thou 

forgive me ? 
Pre. I have forgiven thee. Ere 

those words of anger 
Were in the book of Heaven writ down 

rgainst thee, 
I had forgiven thee. 

Vict. I 'm the veriest fool 

That walks the earth, to have believed 

thee false. 
It was the Count of Lara — 

Pre. That bad man 

Has worked me harm enough. Hast 

thou not heard — 
Vict. I have heard all. And yet 

speak on, speak on ! 
Let me but hear thy voice, and I am 

happy ; 
For every tone, like some sweet in- 
cantation 
Calls up the buried past to plead for 

me. 
Speak, my beloved, speak into my 

heart, 
Whatever fills and agitates thine own. 

\_They walk aside.] 

Hyp. All gentle quarrels in the 

pastoral poets. 
All passionate love scenes in the best 

romances. 
All chaste embraces on the pubhc 

stage, 
All soft adventures, which the liberal 

stars 



96 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



Have winked at, as the natural course 
of things, 

Have been surpassed here by my 
friend, the student, 

And this sweet Gipsy lass, fair Pre- 
ciosa ! 
Pre. Senor Hypolito ! I kiss your 
hand. 

Pray, shall I tell your fortune ? 

Hyp. Not to-night ; 

For, should you treat me as you did 
Victorian, 

And send me back to marry maids for- 
lorn, 

My wedding day would last from now 
till Christmas. 
Chis. \withiii\. What ho ! the Gip- 
sies, ho ! Beltran Cruzado ! 

Halloo ! halloo ! halloo ! halloo ! 

\Enters booted^ with a whip and 
lantern.'] 

Vict. What now ? 

Why such a fearful din ? Hast thou 
been robbed ? 
Chis. Ay, robbed and murdered ; 
and good evening to you, 
My worthy masters. 

Vict. Speak ; what 

brings thee here ? 
Chis. [to Preciosa]. Good news 
from Court ; good news ! Beltran 
Cruzado, 
The Count of the Cal^s, is not your 

father. 
But your true father has returned to 

Spain 

Laden with wealth. You are no more 

a Gipsy. 

Vict. Strange as a Moorish tale ! 

Chis. And we have all 

Been drinking at the tavern to your 

health, 
As wells drink in November, when it 
rains. 
Vict. Where is the gentleman ? 
Chis. As the old song says, 

His body is in Segovia, 
His soul is in Madrid. 



Pre. Is this a dream ? O, if it be 

a dream, 
Let me sleep on, and do not wake me 

yet! 
Repeat thy story ! Say I hm. not 

deceived ! 
Say that I do not dream ! I am 

awake ; 
This is the Gipsy camp; this is 

Victorian, 
And this his friend, Hypolito ! Speak ! 

speak ! 
Let me not wake and find it all a 

dream ! 
Vict. It is a dream, sweet child ! 

a waking dream, 
A blissful certainty, a vision bright 
Of that rare happiness, which even 

on earth 
Heaven gives to those it loves. Now 

art thou rich. 
As thou wast ever beautiful and good ; 
And I am now the beggar. 

Pre. [giving- him her hand]. I 

have still 
A hand to give. 

Chis. [aside] . And I have two to 

take. 
I 've heard my grandmother say that 

Heaven gives almonds 
To those who have no teeth. That 's 

nuts to crack. 
I Ve teeth to spare, but where shall I 

find almonds ? 
Vict. What more of this strange 

story ? 
Chis. Nothing more. 

Your friend, Don Carlos, is now at 

the village 
vShowing to Pedro Crespo, the Alcalde, 
The proofs of what I tell you. The 

old hag. 
Who stole you in your childhood, has 

confessed ; 
And probably they 11 hang her for the 

crime. 
To make the celebration more com- 
plete. 
Vict. No ; let it be a day of gen- 
eral joy ; 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



97 



Fortune comes well to all, that comes 

not late. 
Now let us join Don Carlos. 

Hyp. So farewell, 

The student^s wandering life ! Sweet 

serenades, 
Sung under ladies' windows in the 

night, 
And all that makes vacation beautiful ! 
To you, ye cloistered shades of Alcald, 
To you, ye radiant visions of romance. 
Written in books, but here surpassed 

by truth. 
The Bachelor Hypolito returns. 
And leaves the Gipsy with the Spanish 

Student. 



Scene VI. A pass m the Gicadar- 
rama moimtains. Early morning. 
A muleteer crosses the stage, sitting 
sideways on his 7nule^ arid lighting 
a paper cigar with flint and steel. 



SONG. 

If thou art sleeping, maiden, 

Awake and open thy door; 
'T is the break of day, and we must away, 

O'er meadow, and mount, and moor. 



"Wait not to find thy slippers, 

But come with thy naked feet ; 
We shall have to pass through the dewy 
grass. 

And waters wide and fieet. 

[Disappears down the pass. Enter 
a vionk. A Shepherd appears oft 
the rocks above.'] 
Monk. Ave Maria, gratia plena. 

Ola ! good man ! 
Shep. Ola ! 

Monk. Is this the road to Segovia ? 
Shep. It is, your Reverence. 
Monk. How far is it ? 
Shep. I do not know. 
Monk. What is that yonder in 

the valley ? 
Shep. San Ildefonso. 
Monk. A long way to breakfast. 
Shep. Ay, marry. 



Monk. Are there robbers in these 

mountains ? 
Shep. Yes, and worse than that. 
Monk. What ? 
Shep. Wolves. 
Monk. Santa Maria ! Come with 

me to San Ildefonso, and thou 

shalt be well rewarded. 
Shep. What wilt thou give me ? 
Monk. An Agnus Dei and my 

benediction. 

[They disappear. A mounted Con- 
trabandist a passes, wrapped in his 
cloak, and a gun at his saddle-bow. 
He goes dozun the pass singiiig.] 

SONG. 

Worn with speed is my good steed, 

And I march me hurried, wonied; 

Onward, caballito mio, 

With the white star in thy forehead ! 

Onward, for here comes the Ronda, 

And I hear their rifles crack ! 

Ay, jaleo ! Ay, ay, jaleo ! 

Ay, jaleo ! They cross our track. 

[Song dies away. Enter Peeciosa, 
on horseback, attended by Victo- 
rian, Hypolito, Don Carlos, 
and Chispa, on foot, and aryned.] 

Vict. This is the highest point. 
Here let us rest. 
See, Preciosa, see how all about us 
Kneeling, like hooded friars, the misty 

mountains 
Receive the benediction of the sun ! 
O glorious sight ! 

Pre. Most beautiful indeed ! 
Hyp. Most wonderful ! 
Vict. And in the vale below 

Where yonder steeples flash like lifted 

halberds, 
San Ildefonso, from its noisy belfries, 
Sends up a salutation to the morn. 
As if an army smote their brazen 

shields, 
And shouted victory ! 

Pre. And which way 

Lies Segovia ? 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



Vict. At a great distance yonder. 

Dost thou not see it ? 

Pre. No. I do not see it. 

Vict. The merest flaw that dents 
the horizon's edge. 

There yonder ! 

Hyp. 'T is a notable old town, 

Boasting an ancient Roman aqueduct, 

And an Alcdzar, builded by the Moors, 

Wherein, you may remember, poor 
Gil Bias 

Was fed on Pan del Rey. O, many 
a time 

Out of its grated windows have I 
looked 

Hundreds of feet plumb down to the 
E res ma. 

That, like a serpent through the val- 
ley creeping, 

Glides at its foot. 

Pre. O, yes ! I see it now, 

Yet rather with my heart, than with 
mine eyes, 

So faint it is. And all my thoughts 
sail thither. 

Freighted with prayers and hopes, 
and forward urged 

Against all stress of accident, as, in 

The Eastern Tale, against the wind 
and tide, 

Great ships were drawn to the Mag- 
netic Mountains, 

And there were wrecked, and per- 
ished in the sea ! \She weeps. '\ 
Vict. O gentle spirit ! Thou didst 
bear unmoved 

Blasts of adversity and frosts of fate ! 

But the first ray of sunshine that falls 
on thee 

Melts thee to tears ! O, let thy 
weary heart 

Lean upon mine ! and it shall faint 
no more, 

Nor thirst, nor hunger ; but be com- 
forted 

And filled with my affection. 



Pre. Stay no longer ! 

My father waits. Methinks I see him 

there. 
Now looking from the window, and 

now watching 
Each sound of wheels or foot-fall in 

the street. 
And saying, " Hark ! she comes ! " 

O father ! father ! 

\They descend the pass. Chispa 
remains behind. '\ 

Chis. I have a father, too, but he 
is a dead one. Alas and alack-a-day ! 
Poor was I born, and poor do I re- 
main. I neither win nor lose. Thus 
I wag through the world, half the time 
on foot, and the other half walking ; 
and always as merry as a thunder- 
storm in the night. And so we plough 
along, as the fly said to the ox. Who 
knows what may happen ? Patience, 
and shuffle the cards ! I am not yet 
so bald, that you can see my brains ; 
and perhaps, after all, I shall some 
day go to Rome, and come back Saint 
Peter. Benedicite ! [A>//. 

[^ paicse. Then enter Bartolome 
wildly., as if in pursuit, with a 
carbi7ie in his hand.'\ 

Bart. They passed this way ! I 
hear their horses' hoofs ! 
Yonder I see them ! Come, sweet 

caramillo. 
This serenade shall be the Gipsy's 
last! 

'[Fires down the pass. '\ 

Ha ! ha ! well whistled, my sweet 

caramillo ! 
Well whistled ! — I have missed her ! 

— O, my God ! 
VThe shot is returned. Bartolome 
falls.-\ 



CARILLON. 



99 



THE BELFRY OF BRUGES AND OTHER 
POEMS, 1846. 



CARILLON. 

In the ancient town of Bruges, 
In the quaint old Flemish city, 
As the evening shades descended, 
Low and loud and sweetly blended, 
Low at times and loud at times, 
And changing like a poet's rhymes, 
Rang the beautiful wild chimes, 
From the Belfry in the market 
Of the ancient town of Bruges. 



Then, with deep sonorous clangor 
Calmly answering their sweet anger, 
When the wrangling bells had ended, 
Slowly struck the clock eleven. 
And, from out the silent heaven. 
Silence on the town descended. 
Silence, silence everywhere, 
On the earth and in the air. 
Save that footsteps here and there 
Of some burgher home returning, 
By the street lamps faintly burning. 
For a moment woke the echoes 
Of the ancient town of Bruges. 



But amid my broken slumbers 
Still I heard those magic numbers, 
As they loud proclaimed the flight 
And stolen marches of the night ; 
Till their chimes in sweet collision 
Mingled with each wandering vision. 
Mingled with the fortune-telling 
Gipsy-bands of dreams and fancies, 
Which amid the waste expanses 
Of the silent land of trances 
Have their solitary dwelling. 



All else seemed asleep in Bruges, 
In the quaint old Hemish city. 

And I thought how like these chimes 
Are the poet's airy rhymes. 
All his rhymes and roundelays, 
His conceits, and songs, and ditties, 
From the belfry of his brain, 
Scattered downward, though in vain, 
On the roofs and stones of cities ! 
For by night the drowsy ear 
Under its curtains cannot hear, 
And by day men go their ways, 
Hearing the music as they pass, 
But deeming it no more, alas ! 
Than the hollow sound of brass. 

Yet perchance a sleepless wight, 

Lodging at some humble inn 

In the narrow lanes of life. 

When the dusk and hush of night 

Shut out the incessant din 

Of daylight and its toil and strife, 

May listen with a calm delight 

To the poet's melodies. 

Till he hears, or dreams he hears. 

Intermingled with the song, 

Thoughts that he has cherished long ; 

Hears amid the chime and singing 

The bells of his own village ringing, 

And wakes, and finds his slumberous 

eyes 
Wet with most delicious tears. 
Thus dreamed I, as by night I lay 
In Bruges, at the Fleur-de-Ble, 
Listening with a wild delight 
To the chimes that, through the night, 
Rang their changes from the Belfry 
Of that quaint old Flemish city. 



LofC. 



THE BELFRY OF BRUGES. 



THE BELFRY OF BRUGES. 



THE BELFRY OF BRUGES. 

In the market-place of Bruges stands 
the belfry old and brown ; 

Thrice consumed and thrice rebuilded, 
still it watches o'er the town. 



As the summer morn was breaking, on 
that lofty tower I stood, 

And the world threw off the darkness, 
like the weeds of widowhood. 



Thick with towns and hamlets 
studded, and with streams and 
vapors gray, 

Like a shield embossed with silver, 
round and vast the landscape lay. 

At my feet the city slumbered. From 
its chimneys, here and there. 

Wreaths of snow-white smoke, ascend- 
ing, vanished, ghost-like, into air. 

Not a sound rose from the city at that 

early morning hour. 
But 1 heard a heart of iron beating in 

the ancient tower. 



From their nests beneath the rafters 
sang the swallows wild and high ; 

And the world, beneath me sleeping, 
seemed more distant than the sky. 

Then most musical and solemn, bring- 
ing back the olden thnes. 

With their strange, unearthly changes 
rang the melancholy chimes, 

Like the psalms from some old cloister, 
when the nuns sing in the choir; 

And the great bell tolled among them, 
like the chanting of a friar. 



Visions of the days departed, shadowy 
phantoms filled my brain ; 

They who live in history only seemed 
to walk the earth again ; 



All the Foresters of Flanders, — 
mighty Baldwin Bras de Fer, 

Lyderick du Bucq and Cressy, Philip, 
Guy de Dampierre. 



I beheld the pageants splendid, that 
adorned those days of old ; 

Stately dames, like queens attended, 
knights who bore the Fleece of 
Gold; 



Lombard and Venetian merchants 
with deep-laden argosies ; 

Ministers from twenty nations ; more 
than royal pomp and ease. 

I beheld proud Maximilian, kneeling 

humbly on the ground ; 
I beheld the gentle Mary, hunting 

with her hawk and hound ; 



And her lighted bridal-chamber, where 
a duke slept with the queen. 

And the armed guard around them, 
and the sword unsheathed be- 
tween. 



I beheld the Flemish weavers, with 
Namur and Juliers bold, 

Marching homeward from the bloody 
battle of the Spurs of Gold ; 



Saw the fight at Minnewater, saw the 
White Hoods moving west, 

Saw great Artevelde victorious scale 
the Golden Dragon's nest. 



A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE. 



And again the whiskered Spaniard 
all the land with terror smote ; 

And again the wild alarum sounded 
from the tocsin's throat ; 



Till the bell of Ghent responded o'er 
lagoon and dike of sand, 

" I am Roland ! I am Roland ! there 
is victory in the land ! " 



Then the sound of drums aroused me. 
The awakened city's roar 

Chased the phantoms I had sum- 
moned back into their graves 
once more. 

Hours had passed away like minutes ; 

and before I was aware, 
Lo ! the shadow of the belfry crossed 

the sun-illumined square. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE. 

This is the place. Stand still, my 
steed, 

Let me review the scene. 
And summon from the shadowy Past 

The forms that once have been. 

The Past and Present here unite 
Beneath Time's flowing tide, 

Like footprints hidden by a brook, 
But seen on either side. 

Here runs the highway to the town ; 

There the green lane descends, 
Through which I walked to church 
with thee, 

O gentlest of my friends ! 

The shadow of the linden-trees 

Lay moving on the grass ; 
Between them and the moving boughs, 

A shadow, thou didst pass. 

Thy dress was like the lilies ; 

And thy heart as pure as they : 
One of God's holy messengers 

Did walk with me that day. 

I saw the branches of the trees 
Bend down thy touch to meet. 

The clover-blossoms in the grass 
Rise up to kiss thy feet. 



" Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares, 
Of earth and folly born ! " 

Solemnly sang the village choir 
On that sweet Sabbath morn. 

Through the closed blinds the golden 
sun 

Poured in a dusty beam. 
Like the celestial ladder seen 

By Jacob in his dream. 

And ever and anon, the wind, 
Sweet-scented with the hay, 

Turned o'er the hymn-book's flutter- 
ing leaves 
That on the window lay. 

Long was the good man's sermon, 
Yet it seemed not so to me ; 

For he spake of Ruth the beautiful, 
And still I thought of thee. 

Long was the prayer he uttered, 
Yet it seemed not so to me ; 

For in my heart I prayed with him, 
And still I thought of thee. 

But now, alas ! the place seems 
changed ; 

Thou art no longer here : 
Part of the sunshine of the scene 

With thee did disappear. 



THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. 



Though thoughts, deep-rooted in my 
heart, 

Like pine-trees dark and high. 
Subdue the light of noon, and breathe 

A low and ceaseless sigh ; 

This memory brightens o'er the past, 
As when the sun, concealed 

Behind some cloud that near us hangs, 
Shines on a distant field. 



THE ARSENAL AT SPRING- 
FIELD. 

This is the Arsenal. From floor to 
ceiling. 
Like a huge organ, rise the bur- 
nished arms ; 
But from their silent pipes no anthem 
pealing 
Startles the villages with strange 
alarms. 

Ah ! what a sound will rise, how wild 
and dreary, 
When the death-angel touches those 
swift keys ! 
What loud lament and dismal Miserere 
Will mingle with their awful sym- 
phonies ! 

I hear even now the infinite fierce 
chorus, 
The cries of agony, the endless 
groan, 
Which, through the ages that have 
gone before us. 
In long reverberations reach our 
own. 

On helm and harness rings the Saxon 
hammer, 
Through Cimbric forest roars the 
Norseman''s song, 
And loud, amid the universal clamor. 
O'er distant deserts sounds the 
Tartar gong. 



I hear the Florentine, who from his 
palace 
Wheels out his battle-bell with 
dreadful din. 
And Aztec priests upon their teocallis 
Beat the wild war-drum made of 
serpent's skin ; 

The tumult of each sacked and burn- 
ing village : 
The shout that every prayer for 
mercy drowns ; 
The soldiers' revels in the midst of 
pillage ; 
The wail of famine in beleaguered 
towns ; 

The bursting shell, the gateway 
wrenched asunder, 
The rattling musketry, the clashing 
blade ; 
And ever and anon, in tones of 
thunder, 
The diapason of the cannonade. 

Is it, O man, with such discordant 
noises. 
With such accursed instmments as 
these, 
Thou drownest Nature's sweet and 
kindly voices, 
And jarrest the celestial harmonies ? 

Were half the power, that fills the 
world with terror, 
Were half the wealth, bestowed on 
camps and courts, 
Given to redeem the human mind 
from error. 
There were no need of arsenals nor 
forts : 

The warrior's name would be a name 
abhorred ! 
And every nation, that should lift 
again 
Its hand against a brother, on its 
forehead 
Would wear forevermore the curse 
of Cain ! 



NUREMBERG. 



103 



Down the dark future, through long 
generations, 
The echoing sounds grow fainter 
and then cease ; 
And like a bell, with solemn, sweet 
vibrations, 
I hear once more the voice of 
Christ say, " Peace ! " 

Peace ! and no longer from its brazen 
portals 
The blast of War's great organ 
shakes the skies ! 
But beautiful as songs of the immor- 
tals. 
The holy melodies of love arise. 



NUREMBERG. 

In the valley of the Pegnitz, where 
across broad meadow-lands 

Rise the blue Franconian mountains, 
Nuremberg, the ancient, stands. 

Quaint old town of toil and traffic, 
quaint old town of art and song. 

Memories haunt thy pointed gables, 
like the rooks that round them 
throng : 

Memories of the Middle Ages, w^hen 
the emperors, rough and bold, 

Had their dwelling in thy castle, time- 
defying, centuries old ; 

And thy brave and thrifty burghers 
boasted, in their uncouth rhyme. 

That their great imperial city stretched 
its hand through every clime. 

In the court-yard of the castle, bound 
with many an iron band, 

Stands the mighty linden planted by 
Queen Cunigunde's hand ; 

On the square the oriel window, 
where in old heroic days 

Sat the poet Melchior singing Kaiser 
Maximilian's praise. 



Everywhere I see around me rise the 
wondrous world of Art : 

Fountains wrought with richest sculp- 
ture standing in the common 
mart; 

And above cathedral doorways saints 
and bishops carved in stone. 

By a former age commissioned as 
apostles to our own. 

In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps 
enshrined his holy dust. 

And in bronze the Twelve Apostles 
guard from age to age their trust ; 

In the church of sainted Lawrence 
stands a pyx of sculpture rare. 

Like the foamy sheaf of fountains, 
rising through the painted air. 

Here, when Art was still religion, 
with a simple, reverent heart, 

Lived and labored Albrecht Durer, 
the Evangelist of Art ; 

Hence in silence and in sorrow, toil- 
ing still with busy hand. 

Like an emigrant he wandered, seek- 
ing for the Better Land. 

Emigravit is the inscription on the 
tombstone where he lies ; 

Dead he is not, — but departed, — 
for the artist never dies. 

Fairer seems the ancient city, and the 
sunshine seems more fair. 

That he once has trod its pavement, 
that he once has breathed its air ! 

Through these streets so broad and 
stately, these obscure and dismal 
lanes. 

Walked of yore the Mastersingers, 
chanting rude poetic strains. 

From remote and sunless suburbs, 
came they to the friendly guild, 



I04 



THE NORMAN BARON. 



Building nests in Fame's great tem- 
ple, as in spouts the swallows 
build. 

As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove 
he too the mystic rhyme, 

And the smith his iron measures 
hammered to the anvil's chime ; 

Thanking God, whose boundless wis- 
dom makes the flowers of poesy 
bloom 

In the forge's dust and cinders, in the 
tissues of the loom. 

Here Hans Sachs, the cobbler-poet, 
laureate of the gentle craft, 

Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters, 
in huge folios sang and laughed. 

But his house is now an ale-house, 
with a nicely sanded floor, 

And a garland in the window, and 
his face above the door ; 

Pointed by some humble artist, as in 
Adam Puschman's song, 

As the old man gray and dove-like, 
with his great beard white and 
long. 

And at night the swart mechanic 
comes to drown his cark and 
care. 

Quaffing ale from pewter tankards, in 
the master's antique chair. 

Vanished is the ancient splendor, and 
before my dreamy eye 

Wave these mingling shapes and fig- 
ures, like a faded tapestry. 

];^ot thy Councils, not thy Kaisers, 
win for thee the world's regard ; 

But thy painter, Albrecht Durer, and 
Hans Sachs, thy cobbler-bard. 

Thus, O Nuremberg, a wanderer from 
a region far away, 



As he paced thy streets and court- 
yards, sang in thought his care- 
less lay : 

Gathering from the pavement's crev- 
ice, as a floweret of the soil, 

The nobility of labor, — the long pedi- 
gree of toil. 



THE NORMAN BARON. 

Dans les moments de la vie ovi la reflex- 
ion deviant plus calme et plus profonde, ou. 
I'int^ret et I'avarice parlent moins haut que 
la raison, dans les instants de chagrin 
domestique, de maladie, et de peril de 
mort, les nobles se repentirent de posseder 
des serfs, comme d'une chose peu agreable 
k Dieu, qui avait cree tous les hommes i 
son image. — Thierry: Conquete de 
l'Angleterre. 

In his chamber, weak and dying. 
Was the Norman baron lying ; 
Loud, without, the tempest thundered, 
And the castle-turret shook. 



In this fight was Death the gainer, - 
Spite of vassal and retainer. 
And the lands his sires had plun- 
dered, 
Written in the Doomsday Book. 

By his bed a monk was seated, 
Who in humble voice repeated 
Many a prayer and pater-noster. 
From the missal on his knee ; 

And, amid the tempest pealing, 
Sounds of bells came faintly stealing, 
Bells, that, from the neighboring 
kloster, 
Rang for the Nativity. 

In the hall, the serf and vassal 
Held, that night, their Christmas 

wassail ; 
Many a carol, old and saintly. 
Sang the minstrels and the waits. 



4 



RAIN IN SUMiMER. 



105 



And so loud these Saxon gleemen 
Sang to slaves the songs of freemen, 
That the storm was heard but faintly, 
Knocking at the castle gates. 

Till at length the lays they chaunted 
Reached the chamber terror-haunted, 
Where the monk, with accents holy. 
Whispered at the baron^s ear. 

Tears upon his eyelids glistened, 
As he paused awhile and listened. 
And the dying baron slowly 
Turned his weary head to hear. 

" Wassail for the kingly stranger 
Born and cradled in a manger ! 
King, like David, priest, like Aaron, 
Christ is born to set us free ! " 

And the lightning showed the sainted 
Figures on the casement painted. 
And exclaimed the shuddering baron, 
" Miserere, Domine ! " 

In that hour of deep contrition, 
He beheld, with clearer vision, 
Through all outward show and fashion, 
Justice, the Avenger, rise. 

All the pomp of earth had vanished, 

Falsehood and deceit were banished, 

Reason spake more loud than passion, 

And the truth wore no disguise. 

Every vassal of his banner, 
Every serf born to his manor, 
All those wronged and wretched 
creatures. 
By his hand were freed again. 

And, as on the sacred missal 
He recorded their dismissal. 
Death relaxed his iron features. 
And the monk replied, " Amen ! " 

Many centuries have been numbered 
Since in death the baron slumbered 
By the convent's sculptured portal. 
Mingling with the common dust : 



But the good deed, through the ages 
Living in historic pages. 
Brighter grows and gleams immortal, 
Unconsumed by moth or rust. 



RAIN IN SUMMER. 

How beautiful is the rain ! 
After the dust and heat. 
In the broad and fiery street, 
In the narrow lane. 
How beautiful is the rain ! 

How it clatters along the roofs, 
Like the tramp of hoofs ! 
How it gushes and struggles out 
From the throat of the overflowing 

spout ! 
Across the window pane 
It pours and pours ; 
And swift and wide, 
With a muddy tide, 
Like a river down the gutter roars 
The rain, the welcome rain ! 

The sick man from his chamber looks 
At the twisted brooks ; 
He can feel the cool 
Breath of each little pool ; 
His fevered brain 
Grows calm again, 

And he breathes a blessing on the 
rain. 

From the neighboring school 

Come the boys, 

With more than their wonted noise 

And commotion ; 

And down the wet streets 

Sail their mimic fleets, 

Till the treacherous pool 

Engulfs them in its whirling 

And turbulent ocean. 

In the country, on every side, 
Where far and wide. 
Like a leopard's tawny and spotted 
hide, 



io6 



TO A CHILD. 



Stretches the plain, 

To the dry grass and the drier grain 

How welcome is the rain ! 

In the furrowed land 

The toilsome and patient oxen stand ; 

Lifting the yoke-encumbered head, 

With their dilated nostrils spread. 

They silently inhale 

The clover-scented gale, 

And the vapors that arise 

From the well-watered and smoking 

soil. 
For this rest in the furrow after toil 
Their large and lustrous eyes 
Seem to thaixk the Lord, 
More than man's spoken word. 

Near at hand. 

From under the sheltering trees, 

The farmer sees 

His pastures, and his fields of grain 

As they bend their tops 

To the numberless beating drops 

Of the incessant rain. 

He counts it as no sin 

That he sees therein 

Only his own thrift and gain. 

These, and far more than these, 

The Poet sees ! 

He can behold 

Aquarius old 

Walking the fenceless fields of air ; 

And from each ample fold 

Of the clouds about him rolled 

Scattering everywhere 

The showery rain, 

As the farmer scatters his grain. 

He can behold 
Things manifold 

That have not yet been wholly told. 
Have not been wholly sung nor said. 
For his thought, that never stops. 
Follows the water-drops 
Down to the graves of the dead, 
Down through chasms and gulfs pro- 
found, 
To the dreary fountain-head 
Of lakes and rivers underground ; 



And sees them, when the rain is done, 
On the bridge of colors seven 
Climbing up once more to heaven, 
Opposite the setting sun. 

Thus the Seer, 

With vision clear. 

Sees forms appear and disappear. 

In the perpetual round of strange. 

Mysterious change 

From birth to death, from death to 

birth. 
From earth to heaven, from heaven to 

earth ; 
Till glimpses more sublime 
Of things, unseen before. 
Unto his wondering eyes reveal 
The Universe, as an immeasurable 

wheel 
Turning forevermore 
In the rapid and rushing river of 

Time. 



TO A CHILD. 

Dear child ! how radiant on thy 

mother's knee. 
With merry-making eyes and jocund 

smiles. 
Thou gazest at the painted tiles, 
Whose figures grace. 
With many a grotesque form and face, 
The ancient chimney of thy nursery! 
The lady with the gay macaw. 
The dancing girl, the grave bashaw 
With bearded lip and chin ; 
And, leaning idly o'er his gate. 
Beneath the imperial fan of state. 
The Chinese mandarin. 

With what a look of proud command 
Thou shakest in thy little hand 
The coral rattle with its silver bells, 
Making a merry tune ! 
Thousands of years in Indian seas 
That coral grew, by slow degrees, 
Until some deadly and wild monsoon 
Dashed it on Coromandel's sand ! 
Those silver bells 
Reposed of yore, 



4 



TO A CHILD. 



107 



As shapeless ore, 

Far down in the deep- sunken wells 

Of darksome mines, 

In some obscure and sunless place, 

Beneath huge Chimborazo's base. 

Or Potosi's overhanging pines ! 

And thus for thee, O little child. 

Through many a danger and escape. 

The tall ships passed the stormy 

cape ; 
For thee in foreign lands remote, 
Beneath the burning, tropic clime, 
The Indian peasant, chasing the wild 

goat. 
Himself as swift and wild. 
In falling, clutched the frail arbute, 
The fibres of whose shallow root, 
Uplifted from the soil, betrayed 
The silver veins beneath it laid. 
The buried treasures of the pirate. 

Time. 

But, lo ! thy door is left ajar ! 
Thou hearest footsteps from afar ! 
And, at the sound, 
Thou turnest round 
With quick and questioning eyes, 
Like one who, in a foreign land, 
Beholds on every hand 
Some source of wonder and surprise ! 
And, restlessly, impatiently, 
Thou strivest, strugglest, to be free. 
The four walls of thy nursery 
Are now like prison walls to thee. 
No more thy mother's smiles, 
No more the painted tiles, 
■ Delight thee, nor the playthings on 

the floor 
That won thy little, beating heart 

before ; 
Thou strugglest for the open door. 

Through these once solitary halls 
Thy pattering footstep falls. 
The sound of thy merry voice 
Makes the old walls 
Jubilant, and they rejoice 
With the joy of thy young heart, 
O'er the light of whose gladness 



No shadows of sadness 
From the sombre background of mem- 
ory start. 

Once, ah, once, within these walls, 
One whom memory oft recalls. 
The Father of his Country, dwelt. 
And yonder meadows broad and 

danip 
The fires of the besieging camp 
Encircled with a burning belt. 
Up and down these echoing stairs. 
Heavy with the weight of cares, 
Sounded his majestic tread ; 
Yes, within this very room 
Sat he in those hours of gloom, 
Weary both in heart and head. 

But what are these grave thoughts to 

thee ? 
Out, out ! into the open air ! 
Thy only dream is liberty. 
Thou carest little how or where. 
I see thee eager at thy play, 
Now shouting to the apples on the 

tree. 
With cheeks as round and red as 

they ; 
And now among the yellow stalks, 
Among the flowering shrubs and 

plants. 
As restless as the bee. 
Along the garden walks, 
The tracks of thy small carriage- 
wheels I trace ; 
And see at every turn how they efface 
Whole villages of sand-roofed tents, 
That rise like golden domes 
Above the cavernous and secret homes 
Of wandering and nomadic tribes of 

ants. 
Ah, cruel little Tamerlane, 
Who, with thy dreadful reign, 
Dost persecute and overwhelm 
These hapless Troglodytes of thy 

realm ! 

What ! tired already ! with those sup- 
pliant looks, 



io8 



TO A CHILD. 



And voice more beautiful than a poef s 

books, 
Or murmuring sound of water as it 

flows, 
Thou comest back to parley with re- 
pose ! 
This rustic seat in the old apple-tree, 
With its overhanging golden canopy 
Of leaves illuminate with autumnal 

hues, 
And shining with the argent light of 

dews. 
Shall for a season be our place of rest. 
Beneath us, like an oriole's pendent 

nest. 
From which the laughing birds have 

taken wing, 
By thee abandoned, hangs thy vacant 

swing. 
Dream-like the waters of the river 

gleam ; 
A sailless vessel drops adown the 

stream. 
And like it, to a sea as wide and deep, 
Thou driftest gently down the tides of 

sleep. 

child ! O new-born denizen 
Of life's great city ! on thy head 
The glory of the morn is shed, 
Like a celestial benison ! 

Here at the portal thou dost stand. 
And with thy little hand 
Thou openest the mysterious gate 
Into the future's undiscovered land. 

1 see its valves expand, 
As at the touch of Fate ! 

Into those realms of love and hate. 
Into that darkness blank and drear, 
By some prophetic feeling taught, 
I launch the bold, adventurous 

thought, 
Freighted with hope and fear; 
As upon subterranean streams, ' 
In caverns unexplored and dark. 
Men sometimes launch a fragile bark. 
Laden with flickering fire, 
And watch its swift-receding beams, 
Until at length they disappear. 
And in the distant dark expire. 



By what astrology of fear or hope 

Dare I to cast thy horoscope ! 

Like the new moon thy life appears ; 

A little strip of silver light. 

And widening outward into night 

The shadowy disk of future years : 

And yet upon its outer rim, 

A luminous circle, faint and dim, 

And scarcely visit)le to us here. 

Rounds and completes the perfect 

sphere ; 
A prophecy and intimation, 
A pale and feeble adumbration. 
Of the great world of light, that lies 
Behind all human destinies. 

Ah ! if thy fate, with anguish fraught, 
Should be to wet the dusty soil 
With the hot tears and sweat of toil, — 
To struggle with imperious thought, 
Until the overburdened brain, 
Weary with labor, faint with pain, 
Like a jarred pendulum, retain 
Only its motion, not its power, — 
Remember, in that perilous hour. 
When most afflicted and oppressed. 
From labor there shall come forth 
rest. 

And if a more auspicious fate 
On thy advancing steps await. 
Still let it ever be thy pride 
To linger by the laborer's side ; 
With words of sympathy or song 
To cheer the dreary march along 
Of the great army of the poor, 
O'er desert sand, o'er dangerous moor. 
Nor to thyself the task shall be 
Without reward ; for thou shalt learn 
The wisdom early to discern 
True beauty in utility ; 

As great Pythagoras of yore. 
Standing beside the blacksmith's 

door. 
And hearing the hammers, as they 

smote 
The anvils with a different note. 
Stole from the varying tones, that 

hung 



THE OCCULTATION OF ORION. 



109 



Vibrant on every iron tongue, 
The secret of the sounding wire, 
And formed the seven-chorded lyre. 

Enough ! I will not play the Seer ; 
I will no longer strive to ope 
The mystic volume, where appear 
The herald Hope, forerunning Fear, 
And Fear, the pursuivant of Hope. 
Thy destiny remains untold ; 
For, like Acestes' shaft of old. 
The swift thought kindles as it flies, 
And burns to ashes in the skies. 



THE OCCULTATION OF 
ORION. 

I SAVi^, as in a dream sublime. 
The balance in the hand of Time. 
O'er East and West its beam im- 
pended ; 
And day, with all its hours of light, 
Was slowly sinking out of sight, 
While, opposite, the scale of night 
Silently with the stars ascended. 

Like the astrologers of eld. 
In that bright vision I beheld 
Greater and deeper mysteries. 
I saw, with its celestial keys, 
Its chords cf air, its frets of fire. 
The Samian's great .^olian lyre. 
Rising through all its sevenfold bars, 
From earth unto the fixed stars. 
And through the dewy atmosphere, 
Not only could I see, but hear. 
Its wondrous and harmonious strings. 
In sweet vibration, sphere by sphere, 
From Dian's circle light and near, 
. Onward to vaster and wider rings, 
Where, chanting through his beard 

of snows, 
Majestic, mournful, Saturn goes. 
And down the sunless realms of space 
Reverberates the thunder of his bass. 

Beneath the sky's triumphal arch 
This music sounded like a march, 
And with its chorus seemed to be 



Preluding some great tragedy. 
Sirius was rising in the east ; 
And, slow ascending one by one. 
The kindling constellations shone. 
Begirt with many a blazing star, 
Stood the great giant Algebar. 
Orion, hunter of the beast ! 
His sword hung gleaming by his side, 
And, on his arm, the lion's hide 
Scattered across the midnight air 
The golden radiance of its hair. 

The moon was pallid, but not faint, 
And beautiful as some fair saint, 
Serenely moving on her way 
In hours of trial and dismay. 
As if she heard the voice of God, 
Unharmed with naked feet she trod 
Upon the hot and burning stars. 
As on the glowing coals and bars 
That were to prove her strength, and 

try 
Her holiness and her purity. 

Thus moving on, with silent pace. 
And triumph in her sweet, pale face. 
She reached the station of Orion. 
Aghast he stood in strange alarm ! 
And suddenly from his outstretched 

arm 
Down fell the red skin of the lion 
Into the river at his feet. 
His mighty club no longer beat 
The forehead of the bull ; but he 
Reeled as of yore beside the sea, 
When, blinded by OEnopion, 
He sought the blacksmith at his forge, 
And, climbing up the mountain gorge, 
Fixed his blank eyes upon the sun. 
Then, through the silence overhead, 
An angel with a trumpet said, 
" Forevermore, forevermore. 
The reign of violence is o'er !' 
And, like an instrument that flings 
Its music on another's strings. 
The trumpet of the angel cast 
Upon the heavenly lyre its blast. 
And on from sphere to sphere the 

words 



THE BRIDGE.— TO THE DRIVING CLOUD. 



Reechoed down the burning chords, — 
" Forevermore, forevermore, 
The reign of violence is o'er ! " 



THE BRIDGE. 

I STOOD on the bridge at midnight, 
As the clocks were striking the hour, 

And the moon rose o'er the city, 
Behind the dark church-tower. 

I saw her bright reflection 

In the waters under me. 
Like a golden goblet falling 

And sinking into the sea. 

And far in the hazy distance 
Of that lovely night in June, 

The blaze of the flaming furnace 
Gleamed redder than the moon. 

Among the long, black rafters 
The wavering shadows lay. 

And the current that came from the 
ocean 
Seemed to lift and bear them away ; 

As, sweeping and eddying through 
them, 

Rose the belated tide. 
And, streaming into the moonlight. 

The seaweed floated wide. 

And like those waters rushing 

Among the wooden piers, 
A flood of thoughts came o'er me 

That filled my eyes with tears. 

How often, O, how often, 

In the days that had gone by, 

I had stood on that bridge at midnight 
And gazed on that wave and sky ! 

How often, O, how often, 

I had wished that the ebbing tide 
Would bear me away on its bosom 

O'er the ocean wild and wide ! 



For my heart was hot and restless, 
And my life was full of care, 

And the burden laid upon me 

Seemed greater than I could bear. 

But now it has fallen from me, 

It is buried in the sea ; 
And only the sorrow of others 

Throws its shadow over me. 

Yet whenever I cross the river 
On its bridge with wooden piers. 

Like the odor of brine from the ocean 
Comes the thought of other years. 

And I think how many thousands 

Of care-encumbered men, 
Each bearing his burden of sorrow. 

Have crossed the bridge since then. 

I see the long procession 

Still passing to and fro, 
The young heart hot and restless. 

And the old subdued and slow ! 

And forever and forever. 
As long as the river flows, 

As long as the heart has passions, 
As long as life has woes ; 

The moon and its broken reflection 
And its shadows shall appear, 

As the symbol of love in heaven, 
And its wavering image here. 



TO THE DRIVING CLOUD. 

Gloomy and dark art thou, O chief 

of the mighty Omawhaws ; 
Gloomy and dark, as the driving 

cloud, whose name thou hast 

taken ! 
Wrapt in thy scarlet blanket, I see 

thee stalk through the city's 
Narrow and populous streets, as once 

by the margin of rivers 
Stalked those birds unknown, that 

have left us only their footprints. 



1| 



SEAWEED. 



What, in a few short years, will re- 
main of thy race but the foot- 
prints ? 

How canst thou walk in these streets, 
who hast trod the green turf of 
the prairies ? 

How canst thou breathe in this air, 
who hast breathed the sweet air 
of the mountains ? 

Ah ! 't is vain that with lordly looks 
of disdain thou dost challenge 

Looks of dislike in return, and ques- 
tion these walls and these pave- 
ments. 

Claiming the soil for thy hunting- 
grounds, while down-trodden 
millions 

Starve in the garrets of Europe, and 
cry from its caverns that they, too. 

Have been created heirs of the earth, 
and claim its division ! 

Back, then, back to thy woods in the 
regions west of the Wabash ! 

There as a monarch thou reignest. 
In autumn the leaves of the 
maple 

Pave the floors of thy palace-halls 
with gold, and in summer 

Pine-trees waft through its chambers 
the odorous breath of their 
branches. 

There thou art strong and great, a 
hero, a tamer of horses ! 

There thou chasest the stately stag 
on the banks of the Elk-horn, 



Or by the roar of the Running-Water, 
or where the Omawhaw 

Calls thee, and leaps through the wild 
ravine like a brave of the Black- 
feet ! 

Hark ! what murmurs arise from the 

heart of those mountainous 

deserts ? 
Is it the cry of the Foxes and Crows, 

or the mighty Behemoth, 
Who, unharmed, on his tusks once 

caught the bolts of the thunder. 
And now lurks in his lair to destroy 

the race of the red man ? 
Far more fatal to thee and thy race 

than the Crows and the Foxes, 
Far more fatal to thee and thy race 

than the tread of Behemoth, 
Lo ! the big thunder-canoe, that 

steadily breasts the Missouri's 
Merciless current ! and yonder, afar 

on the prairies, the camp-fires 
Gleam through the night ; and the 

cloud of dust in the gray of the 

daybreak 
Marks not the buffalo's track, nor 

the Mandan's dexterous horse- 
race; 
It is a caravan, whitening the desert 

where dwell the Camanches ! 
Ha! how the breath of these Saxons 

and Celts, like the blast of the 

east-wind, 
Drifts evermore to the west the scanty 

smokes of thy wigwams ! 



SEAWEED. 



SONGS. 



When descends on the Atlantic 

The gigantic 
Storm-wind of the equinox, 
Landward in his wrath he scourges 

The toiling surges. 
Laden with seaweed from the rocks : 



From Bermuda's reefs ; from edges 

Of sunken ledges. 
In some far-off, bright Azore ; 
From Bahama, and the dashing, 

Silver-flashing 
Surges of San Salvador ; 

From the tumbling surf, that buries 
The Orkneyan skerries. 



THE DAY IS DONE. 



Answering the hoarse Hebrides ; 
And from wrecks of ships, and drift- 
ing 
Spars, uplifting 
On the desolate, rainy seas ; — 

Ever drifting, drifting, drifting 

On the shifting 
Currents of the restless main ; 
Till in sheltered coves, and reaches 

Of sandy beaches. 
All have found repose again. 

So when storms of wild emotion 

Strike the ocean 
Of the poet's soul, ere long 
From each cave and rocky fastness. 

In its vastness. 
Floats some fragment of a song : 

From the far-off isles enchanted. 

Heaven has planted 
With the golden fruit of Truth ; 
From the flashing surf, whose vision 

Gleams Elysian 
In the tropic clime of Youth ; 

From the strong Will, and the En- 
deavor 
That forever 
Wrestles with the tides of Fate ; 
From the wreck of Hopes far-scat- 
tered, 
Tempest-shattered, 
Floating waste and desolate ; — 

Ever drifting, drifting, drifting 

On the shifting 
Currents of the restless heart ; 
Till at length in books recorded, 

They, like hoarded 
Household words, no more depart. 



THE DAY IS DONE. 

The day is done, and the darkness 
Falls from the wings of Night, 

As a feather is wafted downward 
From an eagle in his flight. 



I see the lights of the village 

Gleam through the rain and the 
mist. 
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er 
me. 
That my soul cannot resist : 

A feeling of sadness and longing. 

That is not akin to pain, 
And resembles sorrow only 

As the mist resembles the rain. 

Come, read to me some poem. 
Some simple and heartfelt lay. 

That shall soothe this restless feeling, 
And banish the thoughts of day. 

Not from the grand old masters. 
Not from the bards sublime. 

Whose distant footsteps echo 
Through the corridors of Time. 

For, like strains of martial music, 
Their mighty thoughts suggest 

Life's endless toil and endeavor ; 
And to-night I long for rest. 

Read from some humbler poet. 
Whose songs gushed from his 
heart. 
As showers from the clouds of sum- 
mer. 
Or tears from the eyelids start ; 

Who, through long days of labor, 
And nights devoid of ease. 

Still heard in his soul the music 
Of wonderful melodies. 

Such songs have power to quiet 
The restless pulse of care, 

And come like the benediction 
That follows after prayer. 

Then read from the treasured volume 

The poem of thy choice, 
And lend to the rhyme of the poet 

The beauty of thy voice. 



AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY.— TO AN OLD DANISH SONG-BOOK. 113 



And the night shall be filled with 
music, 

And the cares, that infest the day, 
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, 

And as silently steal away. 



AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY. 

The day is ending. 
The night is descending ; 
The marsh is frozen, 
The river dead. 

Through clouds like ashes 
The red sun flashes 
On village windows 
That glimmer red. 

The snow recommences ; 
The buried fences 
Mark no longer 

The road o'er the plain ; 

While through the meadows, 
Like fearful shadows, 
Slowly passes 
A funeral train. 

The bell is pealing, 
And every feeling 
Within me responds 
To the dismal knell ; 

Shadows are trailing, 
My heart is bewailing 
And tolling within 
Like a funeral bell. 



TO AN OLD DANISH SONG- 
BOOK. 

Welcome, my old friend. 
Welcome to a foreign fireside. 
While the sullen gales of autumn 
Shake the windows. 



The ungrateful world 
Has, it seems, dealt harshly with thee. 
Since, beneath the skies of Denmark, 
First I met thee. 



There are marks of age. 

There are thumb-marks on thy margin, 

Made by hands that clasped thee 

rudely. 
At the ale-house. 



Soiled and dull thou art ; 
Yellow are thy time-worn pages. 
As the russet, rain-molested 
Leaves of autumn. 

Thou art stained with wine 
Scattered from hilarious goblets, ■ 
As these leaves with the libations 
Of Olympus. 

Yet dost thou recall 
Days departed, half-forgotten. 
When in dreamy youth I wandered 
By the Baltic, — 

When I paused to hear 
The old ballad of King Christian 
Shouted from suburban taverns 
In the twilight. 

Thou recallest bards, 

Who, in solitary chambers. 

And with hearts by passion wasted. 

Wrote thy pages. 

Thou recallest homes 
Where thy songs of love and friend- 
ship 
Made the gloomy Northern winter 
Bright as summer. 

Once some ancient Scald, 
In his bleak, ancestral Iceland, 
Chanted staves of these old ballads 
To the .Vikings. 



114 



WALTER VON DER VOGELWEIDE; 



Once in Elsinore, 
At the court of old King Hamlet, 
Yorick and his boon companions 
Sang these ditties. 

Once Prince Frederick's Guard 
Sang them in their smoky bai racks, — 
Suddenly the English cannon 
Joined the chorus ! 

Peasants in the field, 
Sailors on the roaring ocean. 
Students, tradesmen, pale mechanics. 
All have sung them. 

Thou hast teen their friend ; 
They, alas ! have left thee friendless ! 
Yet at least by one warm fireside 
Art thou welcome. 

And, as swallows build 
In these wide, old-fashioned chim- 
neys, 
So thy twittering songs shall nestle 
In my bosom, — 

Quiet, close, and warm, 
Sheltered from all molestation, 
And recalling by their voices, 
Youth and travel. 



WALTER VON DER VOGEL- 
WEIDE. 

VoGELWEiD the Minnesinger, 
When he left this world of ours. 

Laid his body in the cloister, 

Under Wiirtzburg's minster towers. 

And he gave the monks his treasures. 
Gave them all with this behest : 

They should feed the birds at noon- 
tide 
Daily on his place of rest ; 

Saying, " From these wandering min- 
strels 

I have learned the art of song ; 
Let me now repay the lessons 

They have taught so well and long." 



Thus the bard of love departed ; 

And, fulfilling his desire. 
On his tomb the birds were feasted 

By the children of the choir. 

Day by day, o'er tower and turret, 
In foul weather and in fair, 

Day by day, in vaster numbers, 
Flocked the poets of the air. 

On the tree whose heavy branches 
Overshadowed all the place. 

On the pavement, on the tombstone, 
On the poet's sculptured face. 

On the cross-bars of each window, 
On the lintel of each door, 

They renewed the War of Wartburg, 
Which the bard had fought before. 

There they sang their merry carols. 
Sang their lauds on every side ; 

And the name their voices uttered 
Was the name of Vogelweid. 

Till at length the portly abbot 

Murmured, "Why this waste of 
_ food ? 

Be it changed to loaves henceforward 
For our fasting brotherhood." 

Then in vain o'er tower and turret. 
From the walls and woodland nests. 

When the minster bells rang noontide, 
Gathered the unwelcome guests. 

Then in vain, with cries discordant, 
Clamorous round the Gothic spire. 

Screamed the feathered Minnesingers 
For the children of the choir. 

Time has long effaced the inscriptions 
On the cloister's funeral stones, 

And tradition only tells us 

Where repose the poet's bones. 

But around the vast cathedral. 
By sweet echoes multiplied. 

Still the birds repeat the legend, 
And the name of Vogelweid. 



DRINKING SONG. — THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. 



DRINKING SONG. 

INSCRIPTION FOR AN ANTIQUE 
PITCHER. 

Come, old friend ! sit down and listen ! 

From the pitcher, placed between 
us. 
How the waters laugh and glisten 

In the head of old Silenus ! 

Old Silenus, bloated, drunken, 
Led by his inebriate Satyrs ; 

On his breast his head is sunken, 
Vacantly he leers and chatters. 

Fauns with youthful Bacchus follow ; 

Ivy crowns that brow supernal 
As the forehead of Apollo, 

And possessing youth eternal. 

Round about him, fair Bacchantes, 
Bearing cymbals, flutes, and thyrses. 

Wild from Naxian groves, or Zante's 
Vineyards, sing delirious verses. 

Thus he won, through all the nations. 
Bloodless victories, and the farmer 

Bore, as trophies and oblations. 
Vines for banners, ploughs for 
armor. 

Judged by no o'erzealous rigor. 
Much this mystic throng expresses : 

Bacchus was the type of vigor, 
And Silenus of excesses. 

These are ancient ethnic revels, 
Of a faith long since forsaken ; 

Now the Satyrs, changed to devils, 
Frighten mortals wine-o'ertaken. 

Now to rivulets from the mountains 
Point the rods of fortune-tellers ; 

Youth perpetual dwells in fountains, — 
Not in flasks, and casks, and cellars. 

Claudius, though he sang of flagons 
And huge tankards filled with 
Rhenish, 



From that fiery blood of dragons 
Never would his own replenish. 

Even Redi, though he chaunted 
Bacchus in the Tuscan valleys. 

Never drank the wine he vaunted 
In his dithyrambic sallies. 

Then with water fill the pitcher 
Wreathed about with classic fables ; 

Ne'er Falernian threw a richer 
Light upon LucuUus' tables. 

Come, old friend, sit down and listen ! 

As it passes thus between us. 
How its wavelets laugh and glisten 

In the head of old Silenus ! 



THE OLD CLOCK ON THE 
STAIRS. 

L'eternit^ est une pendule, dont le balan- 

cier dit et redit sans cesse ces deux mots 

seulement, dans le silence des tombeaux, 

"Toujours! jamais! Jamais! toujours ! " 

— Jacques Bridaine. 

Somewhat back from the village 

street 
Stands the old-fashioned country-seat. 
Across its antique portico 
Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw 
And from its station in the hall 
An ancient timepiece says to all, — 

" Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! " 

Halfway up the stairs it stands. 
And points and beckons with its hands 
From its case of massive oak. 
Like a monk, who, under his cloak, 
Crosses himself, and sighs, alas ! 
With sorrowful voice to all who 
pass, — 

" Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! " 

By day its voice is low and light ; 
But in the silent dead of night, 



ii6 



THE ARROW AND THE SONG. 



Distinct as a passing footstep's fall 
It echoes along the vacant hall, 
Along the ceiling, along the floor, 
And seems to say, at each chamber- 
door, — 

" Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! " 



Through days of sorrow and of 

mirth. 
Through days of death and days of 

birth. 
Through every swift vicissitude 
Of changeful time, unchanged it has 

stood. 
And as if, like God, it all things saw. 
It calmly repeats those words of 

awe, — 
" Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! " 



In that mansion used to be 
Free-hearted Hospitality ; 
His great fires up the chimney roared ; 
The stranger feasted at his board ; 
But, hke the skeleton at the feast. 
That warning timepiece never 
ceased, — 

" Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! " 



Theregroups of merry children played, 
There youths and maidens dreaming 

strayed. 
O precious hours ! O golden prime, 
And affluence of love and time ! 
Even as a miser counts his gold. 
Those hours the ancient timepiece 
told,— 

" Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! " 



From that chamber, clothed in white. 
The bride came forth on her wedding 

night : 
There, in that silent room below, 
The dead lay in his shroud of snow ; 



And in the hush that followed the 

prayer. 
Was heard the old clock on the stair, — 

" Forever — never ! 

Never — forever!" 



All are scattered now and fled, 
Some are married, some are dead ; 
And when I ask, with throbs of pain, 
"Ah ! when shall they all meet again ? " 
As in the days long-since gone by, 
The ancient timepiece makes reply, — 

"Forever — never! 

Never — forever ! " 



Never here, forever there, 
Where all parting, pain, and care, 
And death, and time shall disappear, — 
Forever there, but never here ! 
The horologe of Eternity 
Sayeth this incessantly, — 

" Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! " 



THE ARROW AND THE 
SONG. 

I SHOT an arrow into the air. 
It fell to earth, I knew not where ; 
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight 
Could not follow it in its flight. 



I breathed a song into the air. 
It fell to earth, I knew not where ; 
For who has sight so keen and strong. 
That it can follow the flight of song ? 



Long, long afterward, in an oak 
I found the arrow, still unbroke ; 
And the song, from beginning to end, 
I found again in the heart of a friend. 



THE EVENING STAR. — AUTUMN. — DANTE. 



SONNETS. 



THE EVENING STAR. 

Lo ! in the painted oriel of the West, 

Whose panes the sunken sun incar- 
nadines, 

Like a fair lady at her casement, 
shines 

The evening star, the star of love 
and rest ! 

And then anon she doth herself divest 

Of all her radiant garments, and re- 
clines 

Behind the sombre screen of yonder 
pines. 

With slumber and soft dreams of love 
oppressed. 

O my beloved, my sweet Hesperus ! 

My morning and my evening star of 
love ! 

My best and gentlest lady ! even 
thus, 

As that fair planet in the sky above. 

Dost thou retire unto thy rest at 
night, 

And from thy darkened vv^indovv^ fades 
the light. 



AUTUMN. 

Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by 
the rain. 

With banners, by great gales inces- 
sant fanned. 

Brighter than brightest silks of Sam- 
arcand. 

And stately oxen harnessed to thy 
wain ! 

Thou standest, like imperial Charle- 
magne, 

Upon thy bridge of gold ; thy royal 
hand 

Outstretched with benedictions o'er 
the land, 



Blessing the farms through all thy 

vast domain. 
Thy shield is the red harvest moon, 

suspended 
So long beneath the heavens' o'er- 

hanging eaves, 
Thy steps are by the farmer's prayers 

attended ; 
Like flames upon an altar shine the 

sheaves ; 
And, following thee, in thy ovation 

splendid. 
Thine almoner, the wind, scatters the 

golden leaves ! 



DANTE. 



Tuscan, that wanderest through the 
realms of gloom, 

With thoughtful pace, and sad, ma- 
jestic eyes, 

Stern thoughts and awful from thy 
soul arise. 

Like Farinata from his fiery tomb. 

Thy sacred song is like the trump of 
doom ; 

Yet in thy heart what human sym- 
pathies. 

What soft compassion glows, as in 
the skies 

The tender stars their clouded lamps 
relume ! 

Methinks I see thee stand, with pallid 
cheeks. 

By Fra Hilario in his diocese, 

As up the convent-walls, in golden 
streaks. 

The ascending sunbeams mark the 
day's decrease. 

And, as he asks what there the stran- 
ger seeks, 

Thy voice along the cloister whis- 
pers, " Peace ! " 



ii8 



THE HEMLOCK TREE. — ANNIE OF THARAW. 



TRANSLATIONS. 



THE HEMLOCK TREE. 

FROM THE GERMAN. 

O HEMLOCK tree ! O hemlock tree ! 

how faithful are thy branches ! 

Green not alone in summer time, 

But in the winter's frost and rime ! 

O hemlock tree ! O hemlock tree ! 

how faithful are thy branches ! 

O maiden fair ! O maiden fair ! how 
faithless is thy bosom ! 
To love me in prosperity, 
And leave me in adversity ! 
O maiden fair ! O maiden fair! how 
faithless is thy bosom ! 

The nightingale, the nightingale, thou 
tak'st for thine example ! 
So long as summer laughs she sings, 
But in the autumn spreads her 
wings. 
The nightingale, the nightingale, thou 
tak'st for thine example ! 

The meadow brook, the meadow 

brook, is mirror of thy falsehood ! 

It flows so long as falls the rain. 

In drought its springs soon ■ dry 

again. 

The meadow brook, the meadow 

brook, is mirror of thy falsehood ! 



ANNIE OF THARAW. 

FROM THE LOW GERMAN OF SIMON 
DACH. 

Annie of Tharaw, my true love of old. 
She is my life, and my goods, and 
my gold. 

Annie of Tharaw, her heart once 
again 



To me has surrendered in joy and in 
pain. 

Annie of Tharaw, my riches, my 

good, 
Thou, O my soul, my flesh and my 

blood ! 

Then come the wild weather, come 

sleet or come snow. 
We will stand by each other, however 

it blow. 

Oppression, and sickness, and sor- 
row, and pain. 

Shall be to our true love as links to 
the chain. 

As the palm-tree standeth so straight 

and so tall. 
The more the hail beats, and the 

more the rains fall, — 

So love in our hearts shall grow 

mighty and strong. 
Through crosses, through sorrows, 

through manifold wrong. 

Shouldst thou be torn from me to 

wander alone 
In a desolate land where the sun is 

scarce known, — 

Through forests I '11 follow, and 

where the sea flows, 
Through ice, and through iron, 

through armies of foes. 

Annie of Tharaw, my light and my 

sun. 
The threads of our two lives are woven 

in one. 

Whate'er I have bidden thee thou hast 

obeyed. 
Whatever forbidden thou hast not 

gainsaid. 



1 



THE SEA HATH ITS PEARLS. 



119 



How in the turmoil of life can love 

stand, 
Where there is not one heart, and one 

mouth, and one hand ? 

Some seek for dissension, and trouble, 

and strife ; 
Like a dog and a cat live such man 

and wife. 

Annie of Tharaw, such is not our love ; 
Thou art my lambkin, m}^ chick, and 
my dove. 

Whate'er my desire is, in thine may 

be seen ; 
I am king of the household, and thou 

art its queen. 

It is this, O my Annie, my heart's 

sweetest rest. 
That makes of us twain but one soul 

in one breast. 

This turns to a heaven the hut where 

we dwell ; 
While wrangling soon changes a home 

to a hell. 



THE STATUE OVER THE 
CATHEDRAL DOOR. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF JULIUS 
MOSEN. 

Forms of saints and kings are stand- 
ing 
The cathedral door above ; 
Yet I saw but one among them 

Who hath soothed my soul with 
love. 

In his mantle, — wound about him, 
As their robes the sowers wind, — 

Bore he swallows and their fledglings. 
Flowers and weeds of every kind. 

And so stands he calm and childlike, 
High in wind and tempest wild ; 



O, were I like him exalted, 
I vv'ould be like him, a child ! 

And my songs, — green leaves and 
blossoms, — 

To the doors of heaven would bear, 
Calling, even in storm and tempest, 

Round me still these birds of air. 



THE LEGEND OF THE 
CROSSBILL. 

from the GERMAN OF JULIUS 
MOSEN. 

On the cross the dying Saviour 
Heavenward lifts his eyelids calm, 

Feels, but scarcely feels, a trembling 
In his pierced and bleeding palm. 

And by all the world forsaken. 
Sees he how with zealous care 

At the ruthless nail of iron 
A little bird is striving there. 

Stained with blood and never tiring, 
With its beak it doth not cease. 

From the cross 't would free the 
Saviour, 
Its Creator's Son release. 

And the Saviour speaks in mildness : 
" Blest be thou of all the good ! 

Bear, as token of this moment, 
Marks of blood and holy rood ! " 

And that bird is called the crossbill ; 

Covered all with blood so clear. 
In the groves of pine it singeth 

Songs, like legends, strange to hear. 



THE SEA HATH ITS PEARLS. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF HEINRICH 
HEINE. 

The sea hath its pearls. 
The heaven hath its stars ; 

But my heart, my heart. 
My heart hath its love. 



POETIC APHORISMS. 



Great are the sea and the heaven ; 

Yet greater is my heart, 
And fairer than pearls and stars 

Flashes and beams my love. 

Thou little, youthful maiden, 
Come unto my great heart ; 

My heart, and the sea, and the heaven 
Are melting away with love ! 



POETIC APHORISMS. 

from the sinngedichte of fried- 
rich von logau. 

seventeenth century, 

Money. 

Whereunto is money good ? 
Who has it not wants hardihood, 
Who has it has much trouble and care, 
Who once has had it has despair. 

The Best Medicines. 

Joy and Temperance and Repose 
Slam the door on the doctor's nose. 

Sin. 

Man-like is it to fall into sin, 
Fiend-like is it to dwell therein, 
Christ-like is it for sin to grieve, 
God-like is it all sin to leave. 



Poverty and Blindness. 

A blind man is a poor man, and blind 

a poor man is ; 
For the former seeth no man, and the 

latter no man sees. 



Law OF Life. 

Live I, so live I, 
To my Lord heartily, 
To my Prince faithfully. 
To my Neighbor honestly, 
Die I, so die I. 



Creeds. 

Lutheran, Popish, Calvinistic, all 
these creeds and doctrines three 

Extant are ; but still the doubt is, 
where Christianity may be. 

The Restless Heart. 

A millstone and the human heart are 

driven ever round ; 
If they have nothing else to grind, 

they must themselves be ground. 

Christian Love. 

Whilom Love was like a fire, and 
warmth and comfort it bespoke ; 

But, alas ! it now is quenched, and 
only bites us, like the smoke. 

Art and Tact. 

Intelligence and courtesy not always 

are combined ; 
Often in a wooden house a golden 

room we find. 

Retribution. 

Though the mills of God grind slowly, 
yet they grind exceeding small, 

Though with patience he stands 
waiting, with exactness grinds 
he all. 

Truth. 

When by night the frogs are croak- 
ing, kindle but a torch's fire. 

Ha ! how soon they all are silent ! 
Thus Truth silences the liar. 

Rhymes. 

If perhaps these rhymes of mine 

should sound not well in 

strangers' ears, 
They have only to bethink them that 

it happens so with theirs ; 
For so long as words, like mortals, 

call a fatherland their own, 
They will be most highly valued 

where they are best and longest 

known. 



CURFEW. — DEDICATION. 



CURFEW. 



I. 

Solemnly, mournfully, 

Dealing its dole, 
The Curfew Bell 

Is beginning to toll. 

Cover the embers, 

And put out the light ; 

Toil comes with the morning, 
And rest with the night. 

Dark grow the windows, 
And quenched is the fire ; 

Sound fades into silence, — 
All footsteps retire. 

No voice in the chambers. 
No sound in the hall ! 

Sleep and oblivion 
Reign over all ! 



II. 

The book is completed. 
And closed, like the day ; 

And the hand that has written it 
Lays it away. 

Dim grow its fancies, 

Forgotten they lie ; 
Like coals in the ashes. 

They darken and die. 

Song sinks into silence. 

The story is told, 
The windows are darkened, 

The hearth-stone is cold. 

Darker and darker 

The black shadows fall ; 

Sleep and oblivion 
Reign over all. 



THE SEASIDE AND THE FIRESIDE, 1850. 



DEDICATION. 

As one who, walking in the twilight 
gloom. 
Hears round about him voices as it 
darkens, 
And seeing not the forms from which 
they come. 
Pauses from time to time, and turns 
and hearkens : 



So walking here in twilight, O my 

friends ! 
I hear your voices, softened by the 

distance. 
And pause, and turn to listen, as each 

sends 



His words of friendship, comfort 
and assistance. 

If any thought of mine, or sung or 
told. 
Has ever given delight or consola- 
tion. 
Ye have repaid me back a thousand 
fold. 
By every friendly sign and saluta- 
tion. 

Thanks for the sympathies that ye 

have shown ! 
Thanks for each kindly word, each 

silent token. 
That teaches me, when seeming most 

alone. 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 



Friends are around us, though no 
word be spoken. 

Kind messages, that pass from land 
to land ; 
Kind letters, that betray the heart's 
deep history, 
In which we feel the pressure of a 
hand, — 
One touch of fire, — and all the rest 
is mystery ! 

The pleasant books, that silently 
among 
Our household treasures take famil- 
iar places, 
And are to us as if a living tongue 
Spake from the printed leaves or 
pictured faces, 

Perhaps on earth I never shall behold. 
With eye of sense, your outward 
form and semblance ; 
Therefore to me ye never will grow old. 
But live forever young in my re- 
membrance. 

Never grow old, nor change, nor pass 
away ! 
Your gentle voices will flow on for- 
ever, 



When life grows bare and tarnished 
with decay, 
As through a leafless landscape 
flows a river. 



Not chance of birth or place has made 
us friends, 
Being oftentimes of different 
tongues and nations, 
But the endeavor for the selfsame 
ends, 
With the same hopes, and fears, 
and aspirations. 

Therefore I hope to join your seaside 
walk. 
Saddened, and mostly silent, with 
emotion ; 
Not interrupting with intrusive talk 
The grand, majestic symphonies of 
ocean. 

Therefore I hope, as no unwelcome 
guest. 
At your warm fireside, when the 
lamps are lighted, 

To have my place reserved among the 
rest. 

Nor stand as one unsought and un- 
invited ! 



4 



BY THE SEASIDE. 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 

" Build me straight, O worthy Mas- 
ter ! 
Staunch and strong, a goodly vessel. 
That shall laugh at all disaster. 

And with wave and whirlwind 
wrestle ! " 

The merchant's word 
Delighted the Master heard ; 
For his heart was in his work, and the 
heart 



Giveth grace unto every Art. 

A quiet smile played round his lips, 

As the eddies and dimples of the tide 

Play round the bows of ships. 

That steadily at anchor ride. 

And with a voice that was full of glee, 

He answered, " Ere long we will launch 

A vessel as goodly, and strong, and 

staunch, 
As ever weathered a wintry sea ! " 

And first with nicest skill and art. 
Perfect and finished in every part, 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 



123 



A little model the Master wrought, 
Which should be to the larger plan 
What the child is to the man, 
Its counterpart in miniature; 
That with a hand more swift and sure 
The greater labor might be brought 
To answer to his inward thought. 
And as he labored, his mind ran o'er 
The various ships that were built of 

yore, 
And above them all, and strangest of 

all, 
Towered the Great Harry, crank and 

tall, 
Whose picture was hanging on the 

wall. 
With bows and stern raised high in air. 
And balconies hanging here and there. 
And signal lanterns and flags afloat, 
And eight round towers, like those 

that frown 
From some old castle, looking down 
Upon the drawbridge and the moat. 
And he said with a smile, " Our ship, 

I wis, 
Shall be of another form than this ! " 

It was of another form, indeed ; 
Built for freight, and yet for speed, 
A beautiful and gallant craft ; 
Broad in the beam, that the stress of 

the blast, 
Pressing down upon sail and mast, 
Might not the sharp bows overwhelm ; 
Broad in the beam, but sloping aft 
With graceful curve and slow degrees. 
That she might be docile to the helm. 
And that the currents of parted seas, 
Closing behind, with mighty force, 
Might aid and not impede her course. 

In the ship-yard stood the Master, 
With the model of the vessel. 

That should laugh at all disaster, 
And with wave and whirlwind 
wrestle ! 

Covering many a rood of ground, 
Lay the timber piled around ; 
Timber of chestnut, and elm, and oak. 



And scattered here and there, with 

these, 
The knarred and crooked cedar knees, 
Brought from regions far away. 
From Pascagoula's sunny bay. 
And the banks of the roaring Roa- 
noke ! 
Ah ! what a wondrous thing it is 
To note how many wheels of toil 
One thought, one word, can set in 

motion ! 
There 's not a ship that sails the ocean, 
But every climate, every soil. 
Must bring its tribute, great or small, 
And help to build the wooden wall ! 

The sun was rising o'er the sea. 
And long the level shadows lay. 
As if they, too, the beams would be 
Of some great, airy argosy. 
Framed and launched in a single 

day. 
That silent architect, the sun, 
Had hewn and laid them every one. 
Ere the work of man was yet begun. 
Beside the Master, when he spoke, 
A youth, against an anchor leaning. 
Listened, to catch his slightest 

meaning. 
Only the long waves, as they broke 
In ripples on the pebbly beach. 
Interrupted the old man's speech. 

Beautiful they were, in sooth, 
The old man and the fiery youth ! 
The old man, in whose busy brain 
Many a ship that sailed the main 
Was modelled o'er and o'er again; — • 
The fiery youth, who was to be 
The heir of his dexterity. 
The heir of his house, and his daugh- 
ter's hand, 
When he had built and launched 

from land 
What the elder head had planned. 

" Thus," said he, " will we build this 

ship ! 
Lay square the blocks upon the slip, 
And follow well this plan of mine. 



124 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 



Choose the timbers with greatest 

care ; 
Of all that is unsound beware ; 
For only what is sound and strong 
To this vessel shall belong. 
Cedar of Maine and Georgia pine 
Here together shall combine. 
A goodly frame, and a goodly fame, 
And the Union be her name ! 
For the day that gives her to the sea 
Shall give my daughter unto thee ! " 

The Master's word 
Enraptured the young man heard; 
And as he turned his face aside. 
With a look of joy and a thrill of 

pride, 
Standing before 
Her father's door, 
He saw the form of his promised 

bride. 
The sun shone on her golden hair, 
And her cheek was glowing fresh and 

fair, 
With the breath of morn and the soft 

sea air. 
Like a beauteous barge was she. 
Still at rest on the sandy beach, 
Just beyond the billow's reach ; 
But he 
Was the restless, seething, stormy 

sea ! 

Ah, how skilful grows the hand 
That obeyeth Love's command ! 
It is the heart, and not the brain, 
That to the highest doth attain. 
And he who followeth Love's behest 
Far exceedeth all the rest ! 

Thus with the rising of the sun 

Was the noble task begun. 

And soon throughout the ship-yard's 

bounds 
Were heard the intermingled sounds 
Qf axes and of mallets, plied 
With vigorous arms on every side ; 
Plied so deftly and so well, 
That, ere the shadows of evening fell. 
The keel of oak for a noble ship, 



Scarfed and bolted, straight and 

strong. 
Was lying ready, and stretched along 
The blocks, well placed upon the slip. 
Happy, thrice happy, every one 
Who sees his labor well begun. 
And not perplexed and multiplied. 
By idly waiting for time and tide ! 

And when the hot, long day was o'er. 
The young man at the Master's door 
Sat with the maiden calm and still. 
And within the porch, a little more 
Removed beyond the evening chill, 
The father sat, and told them tales 
Of wrecks in the great September 

gales. 
Of pirates upon the Spanish Main, 
And ships that never came back 

again, 
The chance and change of a sailor's 

, life. 
Want and plenty, rest and strife, 
His roving fancy, like the wind, 
That nothing can stay and nothing 

can bind, 
And the magic charm of foreign 

lands. 
With shadows of palms, and shining 

sands. 
Where the tumbling surf. 
O'er the coral reefs of Madagascar, 
Washes the feet of the swarthy 

Lascar, 
As he lies alone and asleep on the 

turf. 
And the trembling maiden held her 

breath 
At the tales of that awful, pitiless sea, 
With all its terror and mystery. 
The dim, dark sea, so like unto Death, 
That divides and yet unites mankind ! 
And whenever the old man paused, a 

gleam 
From the bowl of his pipe would 

awhile illume 
The silent group in the twilight gloom, 
And thoughtful faces, as in a dream ; 
And for a moment one might mark 
What had been hidden by the dark, 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 



That the head of the maiden lay at 

rest, 
Tenderly, on the young man's breast ! 

Day by day the vessel grew, 

With timbers fashioned strong and 

true, 
Stemson and keelson and sternson- 

knee. 
Till, framed with perfect symmetry, 
A skeleton ship rose up to view ! 
And around the bows and along the 

side 
The heavy hammers and mallets plied. 
Till after many a week, at length. 
Wonderful for form and strength, 
Sublime in its enormous bulk. 
Loomed aloft the shadowy hulk ! 
And around it columns of smoke, 

upwreathing, 
Rose from the boiling, bubbling, 

seething 
Caldron, that glowed, 
And overflowed 
With the black tar, heated for the 

sheathing. 
And amid the clamors 
Of clattering hammers, 
He who listened heard now and then 
The song of the Master and his 

men: — 

" Build me straight, O worthy Master, 
Staunch and strong, a goodly vessel. 

That shall laugh at all disaster, 
And with wave and whirlwind 
wrestle ! " 

With oaken brace and copper band. 

Lay the rudder on the sand. 

That, like a thought, should have 
control 

Over the movement of the whole ; 

And near it the anchor, whose giant 
hand 

Would reach down and grapple with 
the land, 

And immovable and fast 

Hold the great ship against the bel- 
lowing blast ! 

And at the bows an image stood, 



By a cunning artist carved in wood, 
With robes of white, that far behind 
Seemed to be fluttering in the wind. 
It was not shaped in a classic mould, 
Not like a Nymph or Goddess of old, 
Or Naiad rising from the water, 
But modelled from the Master's daugh- 
ter ! 
On many a dreary and misty night, 
'T will be seen by the rays of the sig- 
nal light, 
Speeding along through the rain and 

the dark. 
Like a ghost in its snow-white sark, 
The pilot of some phantom bark, 
Guiding the vessel, in its flight, 
By a path none other knows aright ! 

Behold, at last. 

Each tall and tapering mast 

Is swung into its place ; 

Shrouds and stays 

Holding it firm and fast ! 

Long ago. 

In the deer-haunted forests of Maine, 

When upon mountain and plain 

Lay the snow. 

They fell, — those lordly pines ! 

Those grand, majestic pines ! 

'Mid shouts and cheers 

The jaded steers. 

Panting beneath the goad. 

Dragged down the weary, winding 

road 
Those captive kings so straight and 

tall. 
To be shorn of their streaming hair. 
And, naked and bare, 
To feel the stress and the strain 
Of the wind and the reeling main. 
Whose roar 

Would remind them forevermore 
Of their native forests they should not 

see again. 
And everywhere 
The slender, graceful spars 
Poise aloft in the air. 
And at the masthead, 
White, blue, and red, 
A flag unrolls the stripes and stars. 



126 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 



Ah ! when the wanderer, lonely, friend- 
less, 
In foreign harbors shall behold 
That flag unrolled, 
'T will be as a friendly hand 
Stretched out from his native land, 
Filling his heart with memories sweet 
and endless. 

All is finished ! and at length 
Has come the bridal day 
Of beauty and of strength. 
To-day the vessel shall be launched ! 
With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched, 
And o'er the bay, 
Slowly, in all his splendors dight, 
The great sun rises to behold the 
sight. 

The ocean old. 

Centuries old. 

Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled, 

Paces restless to and fro. 

Up and down the sands of gold. 

His beating heart is not at rest ; 

And far and wide. 

With ceaseless flow. 

His beard of snow 

Heaves with the heaving of his breast. 

He waits impatient for his bride. 

There she stands. 

With her foot upon the sands, 

Decked with flags and streamers gay. 

In honor of her marriage day, 

Her snow-white signals fluttering, 

blending. 
Round her like a veil descending. 
Ready to be 
The bride of the gray, old sea. 

On the deck another bride 
Is standing by her lover's side. 
Shadows from the flags and shrouds, 
Like the shadows cast by clouds, 
Broken by many a sunny fleck. 
Fall around them on the deck. 

The prayer is said, 
The service read, 



The joyous bridegroom bows his 

head, 
And in tears the good old Master 
Shakes the brown hand of his son. 
Kisses his daughter's glowing cheek 
In silence, for he cannot speak. 
And ever faster 
Down his own the tears begin to 

run. 
The worthy pastor — 
The shepherd of that wandering flock, 
That has the ocean for its wold, 
That has the vessel for its fold. 
Leaping ever from rock to rock — 
Spake, with accents mild and clear, 
Words of warning, words of cheer, 
But tedious to the bridegroom's ear. 
He knew the chart 
Of the sailor's heart, 
All its pleasures and its griefs. 
All its shallows and rocky reefs. 
All those secret currents, that flow 
With such resistless undertow. 
And lift and drift, with terrible force, 
The will from its moorings and its 

course. 
Therefore he spake, and thus said 

he: — 

" Like unto ships far ofT at sea. 
Outward or homeward bound, are we. 
Before, behind, and all around. 
Floats and swings the horizon's 

bound. 
Seems at its distant rim to rise 
And climb the crystal wall of the 

skies. 
And then again to turn and sink. 
As if we could slide from its outer 

brink. 
Ah ! it is not the sea, 
It is not the sea that sinks and shelves, 
But ourselves 
That rock and rise 
With endless and uneasy motion. 
Now touching the very skies, 
Now sinking into the depths of ocean. 
Ah ! if our souls but poise and swing 
Like the compass in its brazen ring, 
Ever level and ever true 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP.— THE EVENING STAR. 



127 



To the toil and the task we have 
to do, 

We shall sail securely, and safely 
reach 

The Fortunate Isles, on whose shin- 
ing beach 

The sights we see, and the sounds we 
hear, 

Will be those of joy and not of 
fear ! " 



Then the Master, 

With a gesture of command, 

Waved his hand ; 

And at the word. 

Loud and sudden there was heard. 

All around them and below. 

The sound of hammers, blow on 

blow. 
Knocking away the shores and spurs. 
And see ! she stirs ! 
She starts, — she moves, — she seems 

to feel 
The thrill of life along her keel, 
And spurning with her foot the 

ground. 
With one exulting, joyous bound. 
She leaps into the ocean's arms ! 

And lo ! from the assembled crowd 
There rose a shout, prolonged and 

loud. 
That to the ocean seemed to say, — 
"Take her, O bridegroom, old and 

gray, 
Take her to thy protecting arms. 
With all her youth and all her 

charms ! " 

How beautiful she is ! How fair 
She lies within those arms, that press 
Her form with many a soft caress 
Of tenderness and watchful care ! 
Sail forth into the sea, O ship ! 
Through wind and wave, right on- 
ward steer ! 
The moistened eye, the trembling lip, 
Are not the signs of doubt or fear. 



Sail forth into the sea of life, 
O gentle, loving, trusting wife, 
And safe from all adversity 
Upon the bosom of that sea 
Thy comings and thy goings be ! 
For gentleness and love and trust 
Prevail o'er angry wave and gust ; 
And in the wreck of noble lives 
Something immortal still survives ! 

Thou, too,; sail on, O Ship of State ! 
Sail on, O Union, strong and great ! 
Humanity with all its fears. 
With all the hopes of future years. 

Is hanging breathless on thy fate!^ 

We know what Master laid thy keel, 
What Workmen wrought thy ribs of 

steel. 
Who made each mast, and sail, and 

rope, 
What anvils rang, what hammers 

beat, 
In what a forge and what a heat 
Were shaped the anchors of 

hope ! 
Fear not each sudden sound and 

shock, 
'T is of the wave and not the rock ; 
'T is but the flapping of the sail. 
And not a rent made by the gale ! 
In spite of rock and tempest's roar. 
In spite of false lights on the shore. 
Sail on, nor fear to breast the se"a1 
Our hearts, our hopes, are all with 

thee. 
Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, 

our tears. 
Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, 
Are all with thee, — are all with thee ! 



thy 



THE EVENING STAR. 

Just above yon sandy bar, 

As the day grows fainter and 
dimmer. 
Lonely and lovely, a single star 

Lights the air with a dusky glimmer. 



128 



THE SECRET OF THE SEA. — TWILIGHT. 



Into the ocean faint and far 

Falls the trail of its golden splendor, 
And the gleam of that single star 

Is ever refulgent, soft, and tender. 

Chrysaor, rising out of the sea, 

Showed thus glorious and thus 
emulous, 

Leaving the arms of Callirrhoe, 
Forever tender, soft, and tremulous. 

Thus o'er the ocean faint and far 
Trailed the gleam of his falchion 
brightly. 

Is it a God, or is it a star 

That, entranced, I gaze on nightly ! 



THE SECRET OF THE SEA. 

Ah ! what pleasant visions haunt me 

As I gaze upon the sea ! 
All the old romantic legends, 

All my dreams, come back to me. 

Sails of silk and ropes of sendal. 
Such as gleam in ancient lore ; 

And the singing of the sailors, 
And the answer from the shore ! 

Most of all, the Spanish ballad 
Haunts me oft, and tarries long. 

Of the noble Count Arnaldos 
And the sailor^s mystic song. 

Like the long waves on a sea-beach. 
Where the sand as silver shines. 

With a soft, monotonous cadence, 
Flow its unrhymed lyric lines ; — 

Telling how the Count Arnaldos, 
With his hawk upon his hand. 

Saw a fair and stately galley, 
Steering onward to the land ; — 

How he heard the ancient helmsman 
Chant a song so wild and clear. 

That the saihng sea-bird,slowly 
Poised upon the mast to hear, 



Till his soul was full of longing. 
And he cried, with impulse strong, -^ 

'' Helmsman ! for the love of heaven, 
Teach me, too, that wondrous 
song !" 

"Wouldst thou," — so the helmsman 
answered, 

" Learn the secret of the sea ? 
Only those who brave its dangers 

Comprehend its mystery ! " 

In each sail that skims the horizon, 
In each landward-blowing breeze, 

I behold that stately galley. 
Hear those mournful melodies ; 

Till my soul is full of longing 

For the secret of the sea. 
And the heart of the great ocean 

Sends a thrilling pulse through me. 



TWILIGHT. 

The twilight is sad and cloudy, 
The wind blows wild and free, 

And like the wings of sea-birds 
Flash the white caps of the sea. 

But in the fisherman's cottage 
There shines a ruddier light, 

And a little face at the window 
Peers out into the night. 

Close, close it is pressed to the win- 
dow. 

As if those childish eyes 
Were looking into the darkness 

To see some form arise. 

And a woman's waving shadow 

Is passing to and fro. 
Now rising to the ceiling. 

Now bowing and bending low. 

What tale do the roaring ocean, 
And the night-wind, bleak and wild, 

As they beat at the crazy casement, 
Tell to that little child ? 



SIR HUMPHREY GILBERT.— THE LIGHTHOUSE. 



And why do the roaring ocean, 
And the night-wind, wild and bleak, 

As they beat at the heart of the 
mother, 
Drive the color from her cheek ? 



SIR HUMPHREY GILBERT. 

Southward with fleet of ice 

Sailed the corsair Death ; 
Wild and fast blew the blast, 

And the east- wind was his breath. 

His lordly ships of ice 

Glistened in the sun ; 
On each side, like pennons wide. 

Flashing crystal streamlets run. 

His sails of white sea-mist 

Dripped with silver rain ; 
But where he passed there were cast 

Leaden shadows o'er the main. 

Eastward from Campobello 
Sir Humphrey Gilbert sailed ; 

Three days or more seaward he bore, 
Then, alas ! the land-wind failed. 

Alas ! the land-wind failed. 
And ice-cold grew the night ; 

And never more, on sea or shore, 
Should Sir Humphrey see the light. 

He sat upon the deck. 

The Book was in his hand ; 

"Do not fear ! Heaven is as near," 
He said, " by water as by land ! " 

In the first watch of the night, 

Without a signal's sound. 
Out of the sea, mysteriously. 

The fleet of Death rose all around. 

The moon and the evening star 
Were hanging in the shrouds ; 

Every mast, as it passed, 

Seemed to rake the passing clouds. 



They grappled with their prize. 
At midnight black and cold ! 

As of a rock was the shock ; 

Heavily the ground-swell rolled. 

Southward through day and dark, 
They drift in close embrace. 

With mist and rain, to the Spanish 
Main, 
Yet there seems no change of place. 

Southward, forever southward. 
They drift through dark and day ; 

And like a dream, in the Gulf-Stream 
Sinking, vanish all away. 



THE LIGHTHOUSE. 

The rocky ledge runs far into the 
sea. 
And on its outer point, some miles 
away. 
The Lighthouse lifts its massive 
masonry, 
A pillar of fire by night, of cloud 
by day. 

Even at this distance I can see the 
tides. 
Upheaving, break unheard along 
its base, 
A speechless wrath, that rises and 
subsides 
In the white lip and tremor of the 
face. 

And as the evening darkens, lo ! how 
bright. 
Through the deep purple of the 
twilight air. 
Beams forth the sudden radiance of 
its light 
With strange, unearthly splendor 
in its glare. 

Not one alone ; from each projecting 

cape, 



I30 



THE LIGHTHOUSE. — THE FIRE OF DRIFT-WOOD. 



And perilous reef along the ocean''s 
verge, 
Starts into life a dim, gigantic shape, 
Holding its lantern o'er the restless 
surge. 

Like the great giant Christopher it 
stands 
Upon the brink of the tempestuous 
wave, 
Wading far out among the rocks and 
sands. 
The night-o'ertaken mariner to 
save. 

And the great ships sail outward and 
return, 
Bending and bowing o'er the bil- 
lowy swells. 
And ever joyful, as they see it burn. 
They wave their silent v/elcomes 
and farewells. 

They come forth from the darkness, 
and their sails 
Gleam for a moment only in the 
blaze. 
And eager faces, as the light unveils. 
Gaze at the tower, and vanish while 
they gaze. 

The mariner remembers when a child, 
On his first voyage, he saw it fade 
and sink ; 
And when, returning from adventures 
wild, 
He saw it rise again o'er ocean's 
brink. 

Steadfast, serene, immovable, the same 
Year after year, through all the silent 
night, 
Burns on forevermore that quenchless 
flame. 
Shines on that inextinguishable 
light ! 

It sees the ocean to its bosom clasp 
The rocks and sea-sand with the 
kiss of peace ; 



It sees the wild winds lift it in their 
grasp. 
And hold it up, and shake it like a 
fleece. 

The startled waves leap over it ; the 
storm 
Smites it with all the scourges of 
the rain, 
And steadily against its solid form 
Press the great shoulders of the 
hurricane. 

The sea-bird wheeling round it, with 
the din 
Of wings and winds and solitary 
cries. 
Blinded and maddened by the light 
within, 
Dashes himself against the glare, 
and dies. 

A new Prometheus, chained upon the 
rock. 
Still grasping in his hand the fire 
of Jove, 
It does not hear the cry, nor heed the 
shock. 
But hails the mariner with words of 
love. 

" Sail on ! " it says, " sail on, ye 
stately ships ! 
And with your floating bridge the 
ocean span ; 
Be mine to guard this light from all 
echpse, 
Be yours to bring man nearer unto 
man ! " 



THE FIRE OF DRIFT-WOOD. 

We sat within the farm-house old, 
Whose windows, looking o'er the 
bay, 
Gave to the sea-breeze, damp and 
cold, 
An easy entrance, night and day. 



RESIGNATION. 



Not far away we saw the port, — 
The strange, old-fashioned, silent 
town, — 
The light-house, the dismantled fort, — 
The wooden houses, quaint and 
brown. 

We sat and talked until the night, 
Descending, filled the little room ; 

Our faces faded from the sight. 
Our voices only broke the gloom. 

We spake of many a vanished scene, 
Of what we once had thought and 
said. 
Of what had been, and might have 
been, 
And who was changed, and who was 
dead; 

And all that fills the hearts of friends, 
When first they feel, with secret 
pain. 
Their lives henceforth have sepacrate 
ends. 
And never can be one again ; 

The first slight swerving of the heart. 
That words are powerless to ex- 
press, 

And leave it still unsaid in part. 
Or say it in too great excess. 

The very tones in which we spake 
Had something strange, I could but 
mark; 



The leaves of memory seemed to make 
A mournful rustling in the dark. 

Oft died the words upon our lips. 
As suddenly, from out the fire 

Built of the wreck of stranded ships. 
The flames would leap and then ex- 
pire. 

And, as their splendor flashed and 
failed. 
We thought of wrecks upon the 
main, — 
Of ships dismasted, that were hailed 
And sent no answer back again. 

The windows, rattling in their 
frames, — 
The ocean, roaring up the beach, — 
The gusty blast, — the bickering 
flames, — 
All mingled vaguely in our speech ; 

Until they made themselves a part 
Of fancies floating through the 
brain, — 

The long-lost ventures of the heart. 
That send no answers back again. 

O flames that glowed ! O hearts that 
yearned ! 
They were indeed too much akin. 
The drift-wood fire without that 
burned, 
The thoughts that burned and 
glowed within. 



BY THE FIRESIDE. 



RESIGNATION. 

There is no flock, however watched 
and tended. 
But one dead lamb is there ! 
There is no fireside, howsoe'er de- 
fended, 
But has one vacant chair ! 



The air is full of farewells to the dying. 
And mournings for the dead ; 

The heart of Rachel, for her children 
crying. 
Will not be comforted ! 



Let us be patient ! 
afflictions 



These severe 



132 



THE BUILDERS. 



Not from the ground arise, 
But oftentimes celestial benedictions 
Assume this dark disguise. 

We see but dimly through the mists 
and vapors ; 
Amid these earthly damps, 
What seem to us but sad, funereal 
tapers 
May be heaven's distant lamps. 

There is no Death ! What seems so 
is transition. 

This life of mortal breath 
Is but a suburb of the life elysian, 

Whose portal we call Death. 

She is not dead, — the child of our 
affection, — 
But gone unto that school 
Where she no longer needs our poor 
protection, 
And Christ himself doth rule. 

In that great cloister's stillness and 
seclusion. 
By guardian angels led. 
Safe from temptation, safe from sin's 
pollution. 
She Uves, whom we call dead. 

Day after day we think what she is 
doing 
In those bright realms of air ; 
Year after year, her tender steps pur- 
suing. 
Behold her grown more fair. 

Thus do we walk with her, and keep 
unbroken 
The bond which nature gives, 
Thinking that our remembrance, 
though unspoken. 
May reach her where she lives. 

Not as a child shall we again behold 
her; 

For when with raptures wild 
In our embraces we again enfold her. 

She will not be a child ; 



But a fair maiden, in her Father's man- 
sion, 
Clothed with celestial grace ; 
And beautiful with all the soul's ex- 
pansion 
Shall we behold her face. 

And though at times impetuous with 
emotion 
And anguish long suppressed. 
The swelling heart heaves moaning 
like the ocean. 
That cannot be at rest, — 



We 



will be patient, and assuage the 
feelinpr 



feeling 



leeiing 
We may not wholly stay ; 
By silence sanctifying, not concealing, 
The grief that must have way. 



THE BUILDERS. 

All are architects of Fate, 

Working in these walls of Time; 

Some with massive deeds and great, 
Some with ornaments of rhyme. 

Nothing useless is, or low ; 

Each thing in its place is best ; 
And what seems but idle show 

Strengthens and supports the rest. 

For the structure that we raise. 
Time is with materials filled ; 

Our to-days and yesterdays 

Are the blocks with which we build. 

Truly shape and fashion these ; 

Leave no yawning gaps between ; 
Think not, because no man sees. 

Such things will remain unseen. 

In the elder days of Art, 

Builders wrought with greatest care 
Each minute and unseen part ; 

For the Gods see everywhere. 

Let us do our work as well. 
Both the unseen and the seen : 



SAND OF THE DESERT IN AN HOUR-GLASS. 



^33 



Make the house, where Gods may 
dwell, 
Beautiful, entire, and clean. 

Else our lives are incomplete, 
Standing in these walls of Time, 

Broken stairways, where the feet 
Stumble as they seek to chmb. 

Build to-day, then, strong and sure, 
With a firm and ample base ; 

And ascending and secure 

Shall to-morrow find its place. 

Thus alone can we attain 

To those turrets, where the eye 

Sees the world as one vast plain, 
And one boundless reach of sky. 



SAND OF THE DESERT IN 
AN HOUR-GLASS. 

A HANDFUL of red sand, from the hot 
clime 
Of Arab deserts brought, 
Within this glass becomes the spy of 
Time, 
The minister of Thought. 

How many weary centuries has it been 
About those deserts blown ! 

How many strange vicissitudes has 
seen, 
How many histories known ! 

Perhaps the camels of the Ishmaelite 
Trampled and passed it o'er. 

When into Egypt from the patriarch's 
sight 
His favorite son they bore. 

Perhaps the feet of Moses, burnt and 
bare. 
Crushed it beneath their tread ; 
Or Pharaoh's flashing wheels into the 
air 
Scattered it as they sped ; 

Or Mary, with the Christ of Nazareth 
Held close in her caress, 



Whose pilgrimage of hope and love 
and faith 
Illumed the wilderness ; 

Or anchorites beneath Engaddi's 
palms 
Pacing the Dead Sea beach, 
And singing slow their old Armenian 
psalms 
In half-articulate speech ; 

Or caravans, that from Bassora's 
gate 
With westward steps depart ; 
Or Mecca's pilgrims, confident of 
Fate, 
And resolute in heart ! 

These have passed over it, or may 
have passed ! 
Now in this crystal tower 
Imprisoned by some curious hand at 
last. 
It counts the passing hour. 

And as I gaze, these narrow walls ex- 
pand ; — 
Before my dreamy eye 
Stretches the desert with its shifting 
sand, 
Its unimpeded sky. 

And borne aloft by the sustaining 
blast. 

This little golden thread 
Dilates into a column high and vast, 

A form of fear and dread. 

And onward, and across the setting 
sun. 
Across the boundless plain, 
The column and its broader shadow 
run, 
Till thought pursues in vain. 

The vision vanishes ! These walls 
again 

Shut out the lurid sun, 
Shut out the hot, immeasurable plain ; 

The half-hour's sand is run ! 



134 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. — KING WITLAF'S DRINKING-HORN. 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 

Black shadows fall 
From the lindens tall, 
That lift aloft their massive wall 
Against the southern sky ; 

And from the realms 
Of the shadowy elms 
A tide-like darkness overwhelms 
The fields that round us lie. 

But the night is fair, 
And everywhere 
A warm, soft vapor fills the air, 
And distant sounds seem near ; 

And above, in the light 
Of the star-lit night. 
Swift birds of passage wing their flight 
Through the dewy atmosphere. 

I hear the beat 
Of their pinions fleet. 
As from the land of snow and sleet 
They seek a southern lea. 

I hear the cry 
Of their voices high 
Falling dreamily through the sky, 
But their forms I cannot see. 

O, say not so ! 
Those sounds that flow 
In murmurs of delight and woe • 
Come not from wings of birds. 

They are the throngs 
Of the poet's songs, 
Murmurs of pleasures, and pains, and 
wrongs, 
The sound of winged words. 

This is the cry 
Of souls, that high 
On toiling, beating pinions, fly, 
Seeking a warmer clime. 

From their distant flight 
Through realms of light 



It falls into our world of night. 

With the murmuring sound of 
rhyme. 

THE OPEN WINDOW. 

The old house by the lindens 

Stood silent in the shade, 
And on the gravelled pathway 

The light and shadow played. 

I saw the nursery windows 

Wide open to the air ; 
But the faces of the children. 

They were no longer there. 

The large Newfoundland house-dog 
Was standing by the door; 

He looked for his little playmates. 
Who would return no more. 

They walked not under the Hndens, 
They played not in the hall ; 

But shadow, and silence, and sadness 
Were hanging over all. 

The birds sang in the branches, 
With sweet, familiar tone ; 

But the voices of the children 
Will be heard in dreams alone ! 

And the boy that walked beside me, 

He could not understand 
Why closer in mine, ah ! closer, 

I pressed his warm, soft hand ! 



KING WITLAF'S DRINKING- 
HORN. 

WiTLAF, a king of tjie Saxons, 
Ere yet his last he breathed. 

To the merry monks of Croyland 
His drinking-horn bequeathed, — 

That, whenever they sat at their revels, 
And drank from the golden bowl, 

They might remember the donor, 
And breathe a prayer for his soul. 



CASPAR BECERRA. — PEGASUS IN POUND. 



135 



So sat they once at Christmas, 
And bade the goblet pass ; 

In their beards the red wine glistened 
Like dew-drops in the grass. 

They drank to the soul of Vv^itlaf, 
They drank to Christ the Lord, 

And to each of the Twelve Apostles, 
Who had preached his holy word. 

They drank to the Saints and Martyrs 
Of the dismal days of yore, 

And as soon as the horn was empty 
They remembered one Saint more. 

And the reader droned from the pulpit. 
Like the murmur of many bees, 

The legend of good Saint Guthlac, 
And Saint Basil's homilies ; 

Till the great bells of the convent. 
From their prison in the tower, 

Guthlac and Bartholomaeus, 
Proclaimed the midnight hour. 

And the Yule-log cracked in the chim- 
ney, 
And the Abbot bowed his head, 
And the flamelets flapped and flick- 
ered, 
But the Abbot was stark and dead. 

Yet still in his pallid fingers 
He clutched the golden bowl. 

In which, like a pearl dissolving, 
Had sunk and dissolved his soul. 

But not for this their revels 
The jovial monks forbore, 

For they cried, '• Fill high the goblet ! 
We must drink to one Saint more ! " 



CASPAR BECERRA. 

By his evening fire the artist 
Pondered o'er his secret shame ; 

Baflied, weary, and disheartened. 
Still he mused, and dreamed of fame. 



'T was an image of the Virgin 
That had tasked his utmost skill ; 

But alas ! his fair ideal 

Vanished and escaped him still. 

From a distant Eastern island 
Had the precious wood been 
brought ; 

Day and night the anxious master 
At his toil untiring wrought ; 

Till, discouraged and desponding, 
Sat he now in shadows deep, 

And the day's humiliation 
Found oblivion in sleep. 

Then a voice cried, " Rise, O master ! 

From the burning brand of oak 
Shape the thought that stirs within 
thee ! " 

And the startled artist woke, — 

Woke, and from the smoking embers 
Seized and quenched the glowing 
wood ; 

And therefrom he carved an image. 
And he saw that it was good. 

O thou sculptor, painter, poet ! 

Take this lesson to thy heart : 
That is best which lieth nearest ; 

Shape from that thy work of art. 



PEGASUS IN POUND. 

Once into a quiet village. 

Without haste and without heed, 
In the golden prime of morning, 

Strayed the poet's winged steed. 

It was Autumn, and incessant 

Piped the quails from shocks and 
sheaves. 

And, like living coals, the apples 
Burned among the withering leaves. 

Loud the clamorous bell was ringing 
From its belfry gaunt and grim ; 



^36 



TEGNER'S DRAPA. 



'T was the daily call to labor, 
Not a triumph meant for him. 

Not the less he saw the landscape, 
In its gleaming vapor veiled ; 

Not the less he breathed the odors 
That the dying leaves exhaled. 

Thus, upon the village common, 
By the school-boys he was found ; 

And the wise men, in their wisdom, 
Put him straightway into pound. 

Then the sombre village crier, 
Ringing loud his brazen bell, 

Wandered down the street proclaiming 
There was an estray to sell. 

And the curious country people. 
Rich and poor, and young and old. 

Came in haste to see this wondrous 
Winged steed, with mane of gold. 

Thus the day passed, and the evening 
Fell, with vapors cold and dim ; 

But it brought no food nor shelter, 
Brought no straw nor stall, for him. 

Patiently, and still expectant. 

Looked he through the wooden 
bars. 

Saw the moon rise o'er the landscape. 
Saw the tranquil, patient stars ; 

Till at length the bell at midnight 
Sounded from its dark abode. 

And, from out a neighboring farm-yard. 
Loud the cock Alectryon crowed. 

Then, with nostrils wide distended, 
Breaking from his iron chain, 

And unfolding far his pinions, 
To those stars he soared again. 

On the morrow, when the village 
Woke to all its toil and care, 

Lo ! the strange steed had departed, 
And they knew not when nor where. 



But they found, upon the greensward, 
Where his struggling hoofs had 
trod, 

Pure and bright, a fountain flowing 
From the hoof-marks in the sod. 

From that hour, the fount unfailing 
Gladdens the whole region round. 

Strengthening all who drink its waters. 
While it soothes them with its sound. 



TEGNER'S DRAPA. 

I HEARD a voice, that cried, 

'' Balder the Beautiful 

Is dead, is dead ! " 

And through the misty air 

Passed like the mournful cry 

Of sunward sailing cranes. 

I saw the pallid corpse 

Of the dead sun 

Borne through the Northern sky. 

Blasts from Niffelheim 

Lifted the sheeted mists 

Around him as he passed. 

And the voice forever cried, 

" Balder the Beautiful 

Is dead, is dead ! " 

And died away 

Through the dreary night, 

In accents of despair. 

Balder the Beautiful, 
God of the summer sun. 
Fairest of all the Gods ! 
Light from his forehead beamed, 
Runes were upon his tongue, 
As on the warrior's sword. 

All things in earth and air 
Bound were by magic spell 
Never to do him harm ; 
Even the plants and stones ; 
All save the mistletoe, 
The sacred mistletoe ! 



4 



SONNET.— THE SINGERS. 



Hoeder, the blind old God, 
Whose feet are shod with silence. 
Pierced through that gentle breast 
With his sharp spear, by fraud 
Made of the mistletoe. 
The accursed mistletoe ! 

They laid him in his ship, 
With horse and harness, 
As on a funeral pyre. 
Odin placed 
A ring upon his finger. 
And whispered in his ear. 

They launched the burning ship ! 

It floated far away 

Over the misty sea. 

Till like the sun it seemed. 

Sinking beneath the waves. 

Balder returned no more ! 

So perish the old Gods ! 

But out of the sea of Time 

Rises a new land of song. 

Fairer than the old. 

Over its meadows green 

Walk the young bards and sing. 

Build it again, 

O ye bards, 

Fairer than before ! 

Ye fathers of the new race, 

Feed upon morning dew. 

Sing the new Song of Love ! 

The law of force is dead ! 
The law of love prevails ! 
Thor, the thunderer. 
Shall rule the earth no more, 
No more, with threats. 
Challenge the meek Christ. 

Sing no more, 

O ye bards of the North, 

Of Vikings and of Jarls ! 

OfthedaysofEld 

Preserve the freedom only, 

Not the deeds of blood. 



SONNET. 

ON MRS. KEMBLE'S READINGS FROM 
SHAKSPEARE. 

O PRECIOUS evenings ! all too swiftly 

sped ! 
Leaving us heirs to amplest heritages 
Of all the best thoughts of the great- 
est sages. 
And giving tongues unto the silent 

dead ! 
How our hearts glowed and trembled 

as she read, 
Interpreting by tones the w^ondrous 

pages 
Of the great poet who foreruns the 

ages, 
Anticipating all that shall be said ! 
O happy Reader ! having for thy text 
The magic book, whose Sibylline 

leaves have caught 
The rarest essence of all human 

thought ! 
O happy Poet ! by no critic vext ! 
How must thy listening spirit now 

rejoice 
To be interpreted by such a voice ! 



THE SINGERS. 

God sent his Singers upon earth 
With songs of sadness and of mirth. 
That they might touch the hearts of 

men. 
And bring them back to heaven again. 

The first, a youth, with soul of fire, 
Held in his hand a golden lyre ; 
Through groves he wandered, and by 

streams, 
Playing the music of our dreams. 

The second, with a bearded face. 
Stood singing in the market-place. 
And stirred with accents deep and 

loud 
The hearts of all the listening crowd. 



138 



SUSPIRIA. — HYMN. 



A gray, old man, the third and last, 
Sang in cathgydrals dim and vast, 
While the majestic organ rolled 
Contrition from its mouths of gold. 

And those who heard the Singers 

three 
Disputed which the best might be ; 
For still their music seemed to start 
Discordant echoes in each heart. 

But the great Master said, " I see 
No best in kind, but in degree ; 
I gave a various gift to each, 
To charm, to strengthen, and to 
teach. 

" These are the three great chords of 

might. 
And he whose ear is tuned aright 
Will hear no discord in the three, 
But the most perfect harmony." 



SUSPIRIA. 

Take them, O Death ! and bear away 
Whatever thou canst call thine own ! 

Thine image, stamped upon this clay. 
Doth give thee that, but that alone ! 

Take them, O Grave ! and let them lie 
Folded upon thy narrow shelves, 

As garments by the soul laid by. 
And precious only to ourselves ! 

Take them, O great Eternity ! 
Our little life is but a gust, 



That bends the branches of thy tree, 
And trails its blossoms in the dust. 



HYMN. 

FOR MY brother's ORDINATION. 

Christ to the young man said : "Yet 
one thing more : 
If thou wouldst perfect be, 
Sell all thou hast and give it to Ihe 
poor, 
And come and follow me ! " 

Within this temple Christ again, un- 
seen. 
Those sacred words hath said. 
And his invisible hands to-day have 
been 
Laid on a young man's head. 

And evermore beside him on his way 
The unseen Christ shall move. 

That he may lean upon his arm and 
say, 
" Dost thou, dear Lord, approve ? " 

Beside him at the marriage feast 
shall be. 

To make the scene more fair ; 
Beside him in the dark Gethsemane 

Of pain and midnight prayer. 

O holy trust ! O endless sense of rest ! 

Like the beloved John 
To lay his head upon the Saviour's 
breast. 

And thus to journey on ! 



THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL-CUILLE. 



139 



THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL-CUILLE. 



FROM THE GASCON OF JASMIN. 

Only the Lowland tongue of Scotland might 
Rehearse this little tragedy aright : 
Let me attempt it with an English quill ; 
And take, O Reader, for the deed the will. 



At the foot of the mountain 

height 
Where is perched Castel-Cuille, 
When the apple, the plum, and the 
almond tree 
In the plain below were growing 

white, 
This is the song one might per- 
ceive 
On a Wednesday morn of Saint Jo- 
seph's Eve : 

" The roads should blossom, the roads 
should bloom, 

So fair a bride shall leave her home ! 

Should blossom and bloom with gar- 
lands gay, 

So fair a bride shall pass to-day ! " 

This old Te Deum, rustic rites attend- 
ing, 
Seemed from the clouds descend- 
ing; 
When lo ! a merry company 
Of rosy village girls, clean as the eye. 
Each one with her attendant 
swain. 
Came to the cliff, all singing the same 

strain ; 
Resembling there, so near unto the 

sky, 
Rejoicing angels, that kind Heaven 
has sent 



For their delight and our encourage- 
ment. 

Together blending, 
And soon descending 
The narrow sweep 
Of the hill-side steep. 
They wind aslant 
Towards Saint Amant, 
Through leafy alleys 
Of verdurous valleys 
With merry sallies. 
Singing their chant ; 

" The roads should blossom, the roads 
should bloom. 

So. fair a bride shall leave her home ! 

Should blossom and bloom with gar- 
lands gay, 

So fair a bride shall pass to-day ! " 

It is Baptiste, and his affianced maiden. 
With garlands for the bridal laden ! 

The sky was blue ; without one cloud 
of gloom, 
The sun of March was shining 
brightly, 
And to the air the freshening wind 
gave lightly 
Its breathings of perfume. 

When one beholds the dusky hedges 

blossom, 
A rustic bridal, ah ! how sweet it is ! 
To sounds of joyous melodies, 



THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL-CUILLE. 



That touch with tenderness the trem- 


It is, that, halfway up the hill. 


bling bosom, 


In yon cottage, by whose walls 


A band of maidens 


Stand the cart-house and the 


Gayly frolicking, 


stalls. 


A band of youngsters 


Dwelleth the blind orphan still, 


Wildly rollicking ! 


Daughter of a veteran old ; 


Kissing, 


And you must know, one year ago, 


Caressing, 


That Margaret, the young and 


With fingers pressing. 


tender. 


Till in the veriest 


Was the village pride and splen- 


Madness of mirth, as they 


1 O J. A 

dor. 


dance. 


And Baptiste her lover bold. 


They retreat and advance, 


Love, the deceiver, them en- 


Trying whose laugh shall be 


snared ; 


loudest and merriest ; 


For them the altar was prepared ; 


While the bride, with roguish eyes. 


But alas ! the summer's blight, 


Sporting with them, now escapes and 


The dread disease that none can 


cries : 


stay. 


" Those who catch me 


The pestilence that walks by 


Married verily 


night. 


This year shall be ! " 


Took the young bride's sight 




away. 


And all pursue with eager haste. 


All at the father's stern command was 


And all attain what they pursue. 


changed ; 


And touch her pretty apron fresh and 


Their peace was gone, but not their 


new. 


love estranged. 


And the linen kirtle round her 


Wearied at home, ere long the lover 


waist. 


fled; 




Returned but three short days 


Meanwhile, whence comes it that 


ago. 


among 


The golden chain they round him 


These youthful maidens fresh and 


throw, 


fair. 


He is enticed, and onward led 


So joyous, with such laughing air. 


To marry Angela, and yet 


Baptiste stands sighing, with si- 


Is thinking ever of Margaret. 


lent tongue ? 




And yet the bride is fair and 


Then suddenly a maiden cried, 


young ! 


" Anna, Theresa, Mary, Kate ! 


Is it Saint Joseph would say to us all, 


Here comes the cripple Jane ! " And 


That love, o'er-hasty, precedeth a fall ? 


by a fountain's side 


O, no ! for a maiden frail, I trow, 


A woman, bent and gray with 


Never bore so lofty a brow ! 


years. 


What lovers ! they give not a single 


Under the mulberry trees appears. 


caress ! 


And all towards her run, as fleet 


To see them so careless and cold to- 


As had they wings upon their feet. 


day. 




These are grand people, one 


It is that Jane, the cripple Jane, 


would say. 


Is a soothsayer, wary and kind. 


What ails Baptiste ? what grief doth 


She telleth fortunes, and none com- 


him oppress ? 


plain. 



THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL-CUILLE. 



141 



She promises one a village swain, 


So fair a bride shall leave her home ! 


Another a happy wedding-day, 


Should blossom and bloom with gar- 


And the bride a lovely boy 


lands gay. 


straightway. 


So fair a bride shall pass to-day ! " 


All comes to pass as she avers ; 




She never deceives, she never 


II. 


errs. 






And by suffering worn and weary, 


But for this once the village seer 


But beautiful as some fair angel yet, 


Wears a countenance severe, 


Thus lamented Margaret, 


And from beneath her eyebrows thin 


In her cottage lone and dreary : — 


and white 




Her two eyes flash like cannons 


'•He has arrived ! arrived at last ! 


bright 


Yet Jane has named him not these 


Aimed at the bridegroom in waist- 


three days past ; 


coat blue, 


Arrived ! yet keeps aloof so far ! 


Who, like a statue, stands in view ; 


And knows that of my night he is the 


Changing color, as well he might, 


star! 


When the beldame wrinkled and 


Knows that long months I wait alone, 


gray 


benighted. 


Takes the young bride by the 


And count the moments since he went 


hand. 


away ! 


• And, with the tip of her reedy 


Come ! keep the promise of that hap- 


wand 


pier day. 


Making the sign of the cross, doth 


That I may keep the faith to thee I 


say: — 


plighted !' 


" Thoughtless Angela, beware ! 


What joy have I without thee ? what 


Lest when thou weddest this false 


delight ? 


bridegroom, 


Grief wastes my life, and makes it 


Thou diggest for thyself a tomb ! " 


misery ; 


And she was silent ; and the maidens 


Day for the others ever, but for me 


fair 


Forever night ! forever night ! 


Saw from each eye escape a swollen 


When he is gone 't is dark ! my soul 


tear; 


is sad ! 


But on a little streamlet silver-clear, 


I suffer ! O my God ! come, make me 


What are two drops of turbid 


glad. 


rain ? 


When he is near, no thoughts of day 


Saddened a moment, the bridal 


intrude ; 


train 


Day has blue heavens, but Baptiste 


Resumed the dance and song 


has blue eyes ! 


again ; 


Within them shines for me a heaven 


The bridegroom only was pale with 


of love. 


fear ; — 


A heaven all happiness, like that 


And down green alleys 


above. 


Of verdurous valleys, 


No more of grief! no more of 


With merry sallies, 


lassitude ! 


They sang the refrain : — 


Earth I forget, — and heaven, and all 




distresses, 


" The roads should blossom, the roads 


When seated by my side my hand he 


should bloom, 


presses ; 



142 THE BLIND GIRL ( 


3F CASTEL-CUILLE. 


But when alone, remember all ! 


"My sister, 't is Baptiste, thy 


Where is Baptiste ? he hears not 


friend ! " • 


when I call ! 




A branch of ivy, dying on the ground, 


A cry the blind girl gave, but nothing 


I need some bough to twine 


said; 


around ! 


A milky whiteness spreads upon her 


In pity come ! be to my suffering 


cheeks ; 


kind ! 


An icy hand, as heavy as lead, 


True love, they say, in grief doth 


Descending, as her brother speaks, 


more abound ! 


Upon her heart, that has ceased 


What then — when one is blind ? 


to beat. 




Suspends awhile its life and heat. 


" Who knows ? perhaps I am for- 


She stands beside the boy, now sore 


saken ! 


distressed. 


Ah ! woe is me ! then bear me to my 


A wax Madonna as a peasant dressed. 


grave ! 




God ! what thoughts within 


At length, the bridal song again 


me waken ! 


Brings her back to her sorrow 


Away ! he will return ! I do but rave ! 


and pain. 


He will return ! I need not fear ! 




He swore it by our Saviour dear ; 


" Hark ! the joyous airs are ring- 


He could not come at his own 


ing ! 


will; 


Sister, dost thou hear them sink- 


Is weary, or perhaps is ill ! 


ing ? 


Perhaps his heart, in this dis- 


How merrily they laugh and 


guise, 


jest ! 


Prepares for me some sweet sur- 


Would we were bidden with the 


prise ! 


rest! 


But some one comes ! Though blind. 


I would don my hose of home- 


my heart can see ! 


spun gray, 


And that deceives me not ! 't is he ! 


And my doublet of linen striped 


't is he ! " 


and gay ; 




Perhaps they will come ; for they 


And the door ajar is set, 


do not wed 


And poor, confiding Margaret 


Till to-morrow at seven o'clock, 


Rises, with outstretched arms, but 


it is said ! " 


sightless eyes ; 


" I know it ! " answered Margaret ; 


'T is only Paul, her brother, who thus 


Whom the vision, with aspect black 


cries : — 


as jet, 




Mastered again ; and its hand of 


" Angela the bride has passed ! 


ice 


I saw the wedding guests go by ; 


Held her heart crushed, as in a vice ! 


Tell me, my sister, why were we not 


"Paul, be not sad! 'T is a 


asked ? 


holiday ; 


For all are there but you and I ! '^ 


To-morrow put on thy doublet 


" Angela married ! and not send 


gay ! 
But leave me now for a while 


To tell her secret unto me ! 


alone." 


O, speak! who may the bride- 


Away, with a hop and a jump, 


. groom be ? " 


went Paul, 



THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL-CUILLE. 



143 



And, as he whistled along the 

hall, 
Entered Jane, the crippled crone. 

" Holy Virgin ! what dreadful 

heat ! 
I am faint, and weary, and out of 

breath ! 
But thou art cold, — art chill as 

death ; 
My little friend ! what ails thee, 

sweet ? " 
" Nothing ! I heard them singing 

home the bride ; 
And, as I listened to the song, 
1 thought my turn would come 

ere long. 
Thou knowest it is at Whitsun- 
tide. 
Thy cards forsooth can never lie. 
To me such joy they prophesy. 
Thy skill shall be vaunted far 

and wide 
When they behold him at my 

side. 
And poor Baptiste, what sayest 

thou ? 
It must seem long to him ; — methinks 

I see him now !" 
Jane, shuddering, her hand doth 

press : 
"Thy love I cannot all approve ; 
We must not trust too much to happi- 
ness ; — 
Go, pray to God, that thou mayst love 

him less ! " 
" The more I pray, the more I 

love ! 
It is no sin, for God is on my side ! " 
It was enough ; and Jane no more 

replied. 

Now to all hope her heart is barred 

and cold ; 
But to deceive the beldame old 
She takes a sweet, contented 

air ; 
Speak of foul weather or of fair. 
At every word the maiden smiles ! 
Thus the beguiler she beguiles ; 



So that, departing at the evening^s 
close. 
She says, " She may be saved ! 
she nothing knows ! " 

Poor Jane, the cunning sorceress ! 
Now that thou wouldst, thou art no 

prophetess ! 
This morning, in the fulness of thy 
heart, 
Thou wast so, far beyond thine 
art! 



Now rings the bell, nine times rever- 
berating, 

And the white daybreak, stealing up 
the sky. 

Sees in two cottages two maidens 
waiting. 

How differently ! 

Queen of a day, by flatterers caressed, 
The one puts on her cross and 

crown. 
Decks with a huge bouquet her 

breast. 
And flaunting, fluttering up and 

down. 
Looks at herself, and cannot rest. 

The other, blind, within her little 

room. 
Has neither crown nor flower's 

perfume ; 
But in their stead for something 

gropes apart, 
That in a drawer's recess doth 

lie. 
And, 'neath her bodice of bright 

scarlet dye. 
Convulsive clasps it to her heart. 

The one, fantastic, light as air, 
'Mid kisses ringing, 
And joyous singing. 

Forgets to say her morning 
prayer ! 



144 



THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTE L-CUILLE. 



The other, with cold drops upon her 
brow, 
Joins her two hands, and kneels 
upon the floor, 
And whispers, as her brother opes 
the door, 
" O God ! forgive me now ! " 

And then the orphan, young and 

blind, 
Conducted by her brother's hand. 
Towards the church, through 

paths unscanned. 
With tranquil air, her way doth 

wind. 
Odors of laurel, making her faint and 

pale. 
Round her at times exhale. 
And in the sky as yet no sunny ray, 
But brumal vapors gray. 

Near that castle, fair to see. 
Crowded with sculptures old, in every 
part, 
Marvels of nature and of art. 
And proud of its name of high 
degree, 
A little chapel, almost bare 
At the base of the rock, is builded 
there ; 
All glorious that it lifts aloof. 
Above each jealous cottage roof. 
Its sacred summit, swept by autumn 
gales. 
And its blackened steeple high 

in air, 
Round which the osprey screams 

and sails. 
" Paul, lay thy noisy rattle by ! " 
Thus Margaret said. " Where are 
we ? we ascend ! " 
" Yes ; seest thou not our jour- 
ney's end ? 
Hearest not the osprey from the belfry 

cry ? 
The hideous bird, that brings ill luck, 

we know ! 
Dost thou remember when our father 
said, 



The night we watched beside his 

bed, 
' O daughter, I am weak and low ; 
Take care of Paul ; I feel that I am 

dying ! ' 
And thou, and he, and I, all fell to 

crying ? 
Then on the roof the osprey screamed 

aloud ; 
And here they brought our father in 

his shroud. 
There is his grave ; there stands the 

cross we set ; 
Why dost thou clasp me so, dear 
Margaret ? 
Come in ! The bride will be 
here soon : 
Thou tremblest ! O my God ! thoa 

art going to sv/oon ! " 
She could no more, — the blind girl, 

weak and weary ! 
A voice seemed crying from that grave 

so dreary, 
"What wouldst thou do, my daugh- 
ter ? " — and she started ; 
And quick recoiled, aghast, faint- 
hearted ; 
But Paul, impatient, urges ever more 
Her steps towards the open 
door; 
And when, beneath her feet, the un- 
happy maid 
Crushes the laurel near the house 

immortal. 
And with her head, as Paul talks on 
again, 
Touches the crown of filigrane 
Suspended from the low-arched 

portal. 
No more restrained, no more 

afraid. 
She walks, as for a feast arrayed. 
And in the ancient chapel's sombre 
night 
They both. are lost to sight. 

At length the bell. 
With booming sound. 
Sends forth, resounding 
round, 



THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL-CUILLE. — A CHRISTxMAS CAROL. 145 



Its hymeneal peal o'er rock and down 
the dell. 
It is broad day, with sunshine 
and with rain ; 

And yet the guests delay not 

long, 
For soon arrives the bridal 

train. 
And with it brings the village 
throng. 
In sooth, deceit maketh no mortal 

gay, 

For lo ! Baptiste on this triumphant 
day, 

Mute as an idiot, sad as y ester-morn- 
ing, 

Thinks only of the beldame's words 
of warning. 

And Angela thinks of her cross, I 

wis ; 
To be a bride is all ! The pretty 

lisper 
Feels her heart swell to hear all round 

her whisper, 
" How beautiful ! how beautiful she 

is!" 

But she must calm that giddy 

head, 
For already the Mass is said ; 
At the holy table stands the 

priest ; 
The wedding ring is blessed ; Baptiste 

receives it ; 
Ere on the finger of the bride he 

leaves it, 
He must pronounce one word at 

least ! 
'T is spoken ; and sudden at the 

groomsman's side 
" 'T is he ! " a well-known voice has 

cried. 
And while the wedding guests all hold 

their breath, 
Opes the confessional, and the bhnd 

girl, see ! 
" Baptiste," she said, " since thou hast 

wished my death, 



As holy water be my blood for 

thee ! " 
And calmly in the air a knife sus- 
pended ! 
Doubtless her guardian angel near 
attended, 
For anguish did its work so well. 
That, ere the fatal stroke de- 
scended, 

Lifeless she fell ! 

At eve, instead of bridal verse, 
The De Profundis filled the air ; 
Decked with flowers a simple 

hearse 
To the churchyard forth they 

bear; 
Village girls in robes of snow 
Follow, weeping as they go ; 
Nowhere was a smile that day. 
No, ah no ! for each one seemed to 

say: — 

"The roads should mourn and be 

veiled in gloom. 
So fair a corpse shall leave its 

home ! 
Should mourn and should weep, ah, 

well-away ! 
So fair a corpse shall pass to-day ! " 



A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 

FROM THE NOEI BOURGUIGNON DE 
GUI BAROZAL. 

I HEAR along our street 
Pass the minstrel throngs ; 
Hark ! they play so sweet, 
On their hautboys, Christmas songs ! 
Let us by the fire 
Ever higher 
Sing them till the night expire ! 

In December ring 
Every day the chimes ; 
Loud the gleemen sing 
In the streets their merry rhymes. 



146 



PROMETHEUS. 



Let us by the fire 
Ever higher 
Sing them till the night expire. 

Shepherds at the grange, 
Where the Babe was born, 
Sang, with many a change, 
Christmas carols until morn. 
Let us by the fire 
Ever higher 
Sing them till the night expire ! 

These good people sang 
Songs devout and sweet ; 
While the rafters rang, 
There they stood with freezing feet. 
Let us by the fire 
Ever higher 
Sing them till the night expire. 

Nuns in frigid cells 
At this holy tide. 



For want of something else, 
Christmas songs at times have tried. 

Let us by the fire 

Ever higher 
Sing them till the night expire ! 

Washerwomen old, 
To the sound they beat, 
Sing by rivers cold, 
With uncovered heads and feet. 
Let us by the fire 
Ever higher 
Sing them till the night expire. 

Who by the fireside stands 
Stamps his feet and sings ; 
But he who blows his hands 
Not so gay a carol brings. 
Let us by the fire 
Ever higher 
Sing them till the night expire ! 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE, 1858. 



. . . come i gru van cantando lor lai, 
Facendo in aer di s6 lunga riga. 



PROMETHEUS, 

OR THE poet's FORETHOUGHT. 

Of Prometheus, how undaunted 
On Olympus' shining bastions 
His audacious foot he planted, 
Myths are told and songs are chanted, 
Full of promptings and suggestions. 

Beautiful is the tradition 

Of that flight through heavenly 
portals, 
The old classic superstition 
Of the theft and the transmission 

Of the fire of the Immortals ! 

First the deed of noble daring, 

Born of heavenward aspiration. 
Then the fire with mortals sharing. 



Then the vulture, — the despairing 
Cry of pain on crags Caucasian. 

All is but a symbol painted 

Of the Poet, Prophet, Seer; 
Only those are crowned and sainted 
Who with grief have been acquainted. 
Making nations nobler, freer. 

In their feverish exultations, 

In their triumph and their yearning. 
In their passionate pulsations, 
In their words among the nations. 
The Promethean fire is burning. 

Shall it, then, be unavailing. 

All this toil for human culture ? 
Through the cloud-rack, dark and 
trailing, 



THE LADDER OF ST. AUGUSTINE. 



147 



Must they see above them sailing 
O'er life's barren crags the vulture ? 

Such a fate as this was Dante's, 

By defeat and exile maddened ; 
Thus were Milton and Cervantes, 
Nature's priests and Corybantes, 
By affliction touched and saddened. 

But the glories so transcendent 

That around their memories cluster, 
And, on all their steps attendant. 
Make their darkened lives resplendent 
With such gleams of inward lustre ! 

All the melodies mysterious. 

Through the dreary darkness 
chanted ; 
Thoughts in attitudes imperious, 
Voices soft, and deep, and serious. 
Words that whispered, songs that 
haunted ! 



[ All the soul in rapt suspension, 
All the quivering, palpitating 
Chords of life in utmost tension, 

j With the fervor of invention. 
With the rapture of creating ! 

Ah, Prometheus ! heaven-scaling ! 

In such hours of exultation 
Even the faintest heart, unquailing. 
Might behold the vulture saihng 

Round the cloudy crags Caucasian ! 

Though to all there is not given 

Strength for such sublime endeavor. 
Thus to scale the walls of heaven, 
And to leaven with fiery leaven 
All the hearts of men forever : 



Yet all bards, whose hearts unblighted 

Honor and believe the presage. 
Hold aloft their torches lighted, 
Gleaming through the realms be- 
nighted. 
As they onward bear the message ! 



THE LADDER OF ST. AUGUS- 
TINE. 

Saint Augustine ! well hast thou 
said. 
That of our vices we can frame 
A ladder, if we will but tread 

Beneath our feet each deed of 
shame ! 

All common things, each day's events. 
That with the hour begin and end, 

Our pleasures and our discontents, 
Are rounds by which we may as- 
cend. 

The low desire, the base design. 
That makes another's virtues less ; 

The revel of the ruddy wine. 
And all occasions of excess ; 

The longing for ignoble things ; 
The strife for triumph more than 
truth ; 
The hardening of the heart, that 
brings 
Irreverence for the dreams of youth ; 

All thoughts of ill ; all evil deeds. 
That have their root in thoughts of 
ill; 

Whatever hinders or impedes 
The action of the nobler will ; — 

All these must first be trampled down 
Beneath our feet, if we would gain 

In the bright fields of fair renown 
The right of eminent domain. 

We have not wings, we cannot soar ; 

But we have feet to scale and climb 
By slow degrees, by more and more. 

The cloudy summits of our time. 

The mighty pyramids of stone 

That wedge-like cleave the desert 
airs. 

When nearer seen, and better known, 
Are but gigantic flights of stairs. 



148 



THE PHANTOM SHIP. 



The distant mountains that uprear 
Their solid bastions to the skies, 

Are crossed by pathways, that appear 
As we to higher levels rise. 

The heights by great men reached and 
kept 

Were not attained by sudden flight, 
But they, while their companions slept, 

Were toiling upward in the night. 

Standing on what too long we bore 
With shoulders bent and downcast 
eyes, 

We may discern — unseen before — 
A path to higher destinies. 

Nor deem the irrevocable Past, 
As wholly wasted, wholly vain, 

if, rising on its wrecks, at last 
To something nobler we attain. 



THE PHANTOM SHIP. 

In Mather's Magnalia Christi, 

Of the old colonial time, 
May be found in prose the legend 

That is here set down in rhyme. 

A ship sailed from New Haven, 
And the keen and frosty airs, 

That filled her sails at parting. 
Were heavy with good men''s 
prayers. 

^' O Lord ! if it be thy pleasure " — 
Thus prayed the old divine — 

" To bury our friends in the ocean. 
Take them, for they are thine ! " 

But Master Lamberton muttered, 
And under his breath said he, 

^•' This ship is so crank and walty 
I fear our grave she will be ! " 

And the ships that came from Eng- 
land, 
When the winter months were gone. 



Brought no tidings of this vessel 
Nor of Master Lamberton. 



This put the people to praying 

That the Lord would let them 
hear 

What in his greater wisdom 

He had done with friends so dear. 

And at last their prayers were 
answered : — 

It was in the month of June, 
An hour before the sunset 

Of a windy afternoon, 

When, steadily steering landward, 

A ship was seen below. 
And they knew it was Lamberton, 
Master, 

Who sailed so long ago. 

On she came, with a cloud of canvas, 
Right against the wind that blew, 

Until the eye could distinguish 
The faces of the crew. 

Then fell her straining topmasts. 
Hanging tangled in the shrouds. 

And her sails were loosened and lifted, 
And blown away like clouds. 

And the masts, with all their rigging. 

Fell slowly, one by one. 
And the hulk dilated and vanished, 

As a sea-mist in the sun ! 

And the people who saw this marvel 

Each said unto his friend. 
That this was the mould of their ves- 
sel. 

And thus her tragic end. 

And the pastor of the village 
Gave thanks to Go.d in prayer. 

That, to quiet their troubled spirits, 
He had sent this Ship of Air. 



THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS. — HAUNTED HOUSES. 149 





No morning gun from the black fort's 


THE WARDEN OF THE 


embrasure. 


CINQUE PORTS. 


Awaken with its call ! 


A MIST was driving down the British 


No more, surveying with an eye im- 


Channel, 


partial 


The day was just begun, 


The long line of the coast. 


And through the window-panes, on 


Shall the gaunt figure of the old Field 


floor and panel, 


Marshal 


Streamed the red autumn sun. 


Be seen upon his post ! 


It glanced on flowing flag and rip- 


For in the night, unseen, a single 


pling pennon, 


warrior. 


And the white sails of ships ; 


In sombre harness mailed, 


And, from the frowning rampart, the 


Dreaded of man, and surnamed the 


black cannon 


Destroyer, 


Hailed it with feverish lips. 


The rampart wall has scaled. 


Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, 


He passed into the chamber of the 


Hithe, and Dover 


sleeper. 


Were all alert that day, 


The dark and silent room, 


To see the French war-steamers 


And as he entered, darker grew, and 


speeding over, 


deeper. 


When the fog cleared away. 


The silence and the gloom. 


Sullen and silent, and like couchant 


He did not pause to parley or dis- 


lions, 


semble, 


Their cannon, through the night, 


But smote the Warden hoar ; 


Holding their breath, had watched, 


Ah ! what a blow ! that made all 


in grim defiance, 


England tremble 


The sea-coast opposite. 


And groan from shore to shore. 


And now they roared at drum-beat 


Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon 


from their stations 


waited. 


On every citadel ; 
Each answering each, with morning 


The sun rose bright overhead : 


Nothing in Nature's aspect intimated 


salutations. 


That a great man was dead. 


That all was well. 




And down the coast, all taking up 


HAUNTED HOUSES. 


the burden, 




Replied the distant forts, 


All houses wherein men have lived 


As if to summon from his sleep the 


and died 


Warden 


Are haunted houses. Through the 


And Lord of the Cinque Ports. 


open doors 




The harmless phantoms on their 


Him shall no sunshine from the fields 


errands glide, 


of azure. 


With feet that make no sound upon 


No drum-beat from the wall, 


the floors. 



150 



IN THE CHURCHYARD AT CAMBRIDGE. 



We meet them at the doorway, on 
the stair. 
Along the passages they come and 
go, 
Impalpable impressions on the air, 
A sense of something moving to 
and fro. 

There are more guests at table, than 
the hosts 
Invited ; the illuminated hall 
Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive 
ghosts, 
As silent as the pictures on the 
wall. 

The stranger at my fireside cannot 
see 
The forms I see, nor hear the 
sounds I hear ; 
He but perceives what is ; while unto 
me 
All that has been is visible and 
clear. 

We have no title-deeds to house or 
lands ; 
Owners and occupants of earlier 
dates 
From graves forgotten stretch their 
dusty hands, 
And hold in mortmain still their 
old estates. 

The spirit-world around this world of 
sense 
Floats like an atmosphere, and 
everywhere 
Wafts through these earthly mists 
and vapors dense 
A vital breath of more ethereal air. 

Our little lives are kept in equipoise 
By opposite attractions and desires ; 
The struggle of the instinct that en- 
joys, 
And the more noble instinct that 
aspires. 



These perturbations, this perpetual 
jar' 
Of earthly wants and aspirations 
high, 
Come from the influence of an unseen 
star, 
An undiscovered planet in our sky. 

And as the moon from some dark 
gate of cloud 
Throws o'er the sea a floating 
bridge of light, 
Across whose trembling planks our 
fancies crowd 
Into the realm of mystery and 
night,— 

So from the world of spirits there 
descends 
A bridge of light, connecting it with 
this. 
O'er whose unsteady floor, that sways 
and bends, 
Wander our thoughts above the 
dark abyss. 



IN THE CHURCHYARD AT 
CAiMBRIDGE. 

In the village churchyard she lies, 
Dust is in her beautiful eyes, 

No more she breathes, nor feels, 
nor stirs ; 
At her feet and at her head 
Lies a slave to attend the dead, 

But their dust is white as hers. 

Was she a lady of high degree. 
So much in love with the vanity 
And foolish pomp of this world of 
ours ? 
Or was it Christian charity, 
And lowliness and humility. 

The richest and rarest of all 
dowers ? 

Who shall tell us ? No one speaks : 
No color shoots into those cheeks, 
Either of anger or of pride, 



THE EMPEROR'S BIRD'S-NEST. — THE TWO ANGELS. 



151 



At the rude question we have asked ; 
Nor will the mystery be unmasked 
By those who are sleeping at her 
side. 

Hereafter ? — And do you think to 

look 
On the terrible pages of that Book 
To find her failings, faults, and 
errors ? 
Ah, you will then have other cares, 
In your own short-comings and de- 
spairs, 
In your own secret sins and terrors ! 



THE EMPEROR^S BIRD'S- 
NEST. 

Once the Emperor Charles of Spain, 
With his swarthy, grave com- 
manders, 
I forget in what campaign. 
Long besieged, in mud and rain, 
Some old frontier town of Flanders. 

Up and down the dreary camp, 

In great boots of Spanish leather, 
Striding with a measured tramp. 
These Hidalgos, dull and damp. 
Cursed the Frenchmen, cursed the 
weather. 

Thus as to and fro they went. 

Over upland and through hollow. 
Giving their impatience vent. 
Perched upon the Emperor's tent. 
In her nest, they spied a swallow. 

Yes, it was a swallow's nest. 

Built of clay and hair of horses. 
Mane, or tail, or dragoon's crest. 
Found on hedge-rows east and west, 
After skirmish of the forces. 

Then an old Hidalgo said, 

As he twirled his gray mustachio, 
" Sure this swallow overhead 
Thinks the Emperor's tent a shed, 
And the Emperor but a Macho ! " 



Hearing his imperial name 

Coupled with those words of malice, 
Half in anger, half in shame. 
Forth the great campaigner came 

Slowly from his canvas palace. 

" Let no hand the bird molest," 
Said he solemnly, "nor hurt her!" 

Adding then, by way of jest, 

" Golondrina is my guest, 

'T is the wife of some deserter ! " 

Swift as bowstring speeds a shaft, 
Through the camp was spread the 
rumor, 
And the soldiers, as they quaffed 
Flemish beer at dinner, laughed 
At the Emperor's pleasant humor. 

So unharmed and unafraid 

Sat the swallow still and brooded, 
Till the constant cannonade 
Through the walls a breach had made, 

And the siege was thus concluded. 

Then the army, elsewhere bent. 

Struck its tents as if disbanding, 
Only not the Emperor's tent, 
For he ordered, ere he went. 

Very curtly, " Leave it standing ! " 

So it stood there all alone, 

Loosely flapping, torn and tattered, 
Till the brood was fledged and flown, 
Singing o'er those walls of stone 

Which the cannon-shot had shat- 
tered. 



THE TWO ANGELS. 

Two angels, one of Life and one of 
Death, 
Passed o'er our village as the morn- 
ing broke ; 
The dawn was on their faces, and 
beneath. 
The sombre houses hearsed with 
plumes of smoke. 



152 



DAYLIGHT AND MOONLIGHT. 



Their attitude and aspect were the 
same, 
Alike their features and their robes 
of white ; 
But one was crowned with amaranth, 
as with flame, 
And one with asphodels, like flakes 
of light. 

I saw them pause on their celestial 
way ; 
Then said I, with deep fear and 
doubt oppressed, 
" Beat not so loud, my heart, lest thou 
betray 
The place where thy beloved are at 
rest ! ^' 

And he who wore the crown of as- 
phodels. 
Descending, at my door began to 
knock, 
And my soul sank within me, as in 
wells 
The waters sink before an earth- 
quake's shock. 

I recognized the nameless agony. 
The terror and the tremor and the 
pain. 
That oft before had filled or haunted 
me. 
And now returned with threefold 
strength again. 

The door I opened to my heavenly 
guest, 
And listened, for I thought I heard 
God's voice ; 
And, knowing whatsoe'er he sent was 
best, 
Dared neither to lament nor to 
rejoice. 

Then with a smile, that filled the 
house with light, 
" My errand is not Death, but Life," 
he said ; 



And ere I answered, passing out of 
sight, 
On his celestial embassy he sped. 

'T was at thy door, O friend ! and not 
at mine, 
The angel with the amaranthine 
wreath, 
Pausing, descended, and with voice 
divine. 
Whispered a word that had a sound 
like Death. 

Then fell upon the house a sudden 
gloom, 
A shadow on those features fair and 
thin ; 
And softly, from that hushed and 
darkened room. 
Two angels issued, where but one 
went in. 

All is of God ! If he but wave his 
hand, 
The mists collect, the rain falls 
thick and loud. 
Till, with a smile of light on sea and 
land, 
Lo ! he looks back from the depart- 
ing cloud. 

Angels of Life and Death alike are 
his ; 
Without his leave they pass no 
threshold o'er ; 
Who, then, would wish or dare, be- 
lieving this, 
Against his messengers to shut the 
door ? 



DAYLIGHT AND MOONLIGHT. 

In broad daylight, and at noon, 
Yesterday I saw the moon 
Sailing high, but faint and white, 
As a school-boy's paper kite. 

In broad daylight, yesterday, 
I read a Poet's mystic lay ; 



THE JEWISH CEMETERY AT NEWPORT. 



153 



And it seemed to me at most 
As a phantom, or a ghost. 

But at length the feverish day 
Like a passion died away, 
And the night, serene and still, 



Then the moon, in all her pride, 
Like a spirit glorified. 
Filled and overflowed the night 
With revelations of her light. 

And the Poet's song again 
Passed like music through my brain ; 
Night interpreted to me 
All its grace and mystery. 



THE JEWISH CEMETERY AT 
NEWPORT. 

How strange it seems ! These He- 
brews in their graves, 
Close by the street of this fair sea- 
port town, 
Silent beside the never-silent waves, 
At rest in all this moving up and 
down ! 

The trees are white with dust, that 
o'er their sleep 
Wave their broad curtains in the 
south-wind's breath, 
While underneath such leafy tents 
they keep 
The long, mysterious Exodus of 
Death. 

And these sepulchral stones, so old 
and brown, 
That pave with level flags their 
burial-place. 
Seem like the tablets of the Law, 
thrown down 
And broken by Moses at the 
mountain's base. 

The very names recorded here are 
strange. 



Of foreign accent, and of different 
climes ; 
Alvares and Rivera interchange 
With Abraham and Jacob of old 
times. 

" Blessed be God ! for he created 
Death ! " 
The mourners said, "and Death is 
rest and peace " ; 
Then added, in the certainty of faith, 
" And giveth Life that never more 
shall cease." 

Closed are the portals of their Syna- 
gogue, 
No Psalms of David now the silence 
break. 
No Rabbi reads the ancient Deca- 
logue 
In the grand dialect the Prophets 
spake. 

Gone are the living, but the dead 
remain. 
And not neglected ; for a hand un- 
seen. 
Scattering its bounty, like a summer 
rain, 
Still keeps their graves and their 
remembrance green. 

How came they here ? What burst 
of Christian hate, 
What persecution, merciless and 
blind, 
Drove o'er the sea — that desert deso- 
late— 
These Ishmaels and Hagars of 
mankind ? 

They lived in narrow streets and 
lanes obscure. 
Ghetto and Judenstrass, in mirk 
and mire ; 
Taught in the school of patience to 
endure 
The life of anguish and the death 
of fire. 



154 



OLIVER BASSELIN. 



All their lives long, with the unleav- 
ened bread 
And bitter herbs of exile and its 
fears, 
The wasting famine of the heart they 
fed, 
And slaked its thirst with marah 
of their tears. 

Anathema maranatha ! was the cry 
That rang from town to town, from 
street to street ; 
At every gate the accursed Mordecai 
Was mocked and jeered, and 
spurned by Christian feet. 

Pride and humiliation hand in hand 
Walked with them through the 
world where'er they went ; 
Trampled and beaten were they as 
the sand, 
And yet unshaken as the continent. 

For in the background figures vague 
and vast 
Of patriarchs and of prophets rose 
sublime. 
And all the great traditions of the 
Past 
They saw reflected in the coming 
time. 

And thus forever with reverted look 
The mystic volume of the world 
they read. 
Spelling it backward, like a Hebrew 
book, 
Till life became a Legend of the 
Dead. 

But ah ! what once has been shall be 
no more ! 
The groaning earth in travail and 
in pain 
Brings forth its races, but does not 
restore. 
And the dead nations never rise 
again. 



OLIVER BASSELIN. 

In the Valley of the Vire 

Still is seen an ancient mill, 

With its gables quaint and queer, 

And beneath the window-sill, 

On the stone. 

These words alone : 

" Oliver Basselin lived here." 

Far above it, on the steep, 

Ruined stands the old Chateau ; 
Nothing but the donjon-keep 
Left for shelter or for show. 
Its vacant eyes 
Stare at the skies, 
Stare at the valley green and deep. 

Once a convent, old and brown. 

Looked, but ah ! it looks no more 
From the neighboring hillside down 
On the rushing and the roar 
Of the stream 
Whose sunny gleam 
Cheers the little Norman town. 

In that darksome mill of stone, 
To the water's dash and din, 
Careless, humble, and unknown, 
Sang the poet Basselin 
Songs that fill 
That ancient mill 
With a splendor of its own. 

Never feeling of unrest 

Broke the pleasant dream he 
dreamed ; 
Only made to be his nest. 
All the lovely valley seemed. 
No desire 
Of soaring higher 
Stirred or fluttered in his breast. 

True, his songs were not divine ; 

Were not songs of that high art, 
Which, as winds do in the pine. 
Find an answer in each heart; 
But the mirth 
Of this green earth 
Laughed and revelled in his line. 



VICTOR GALBRAITH. 



155 



From the alehouse and the inn, 


These were the words they seemed 


Opening on the narrow street, 


to say : 


Came the loud, convivial din. 


" Come forth to thy death, 


Singing and applause of feet, 


Victor Galbraith ! " 


The laughing lays 




That in those days 


Forth he came, with a martial tread, 


Sang the poet Basselin. 


Firm was his step, erect his head ; 




Victor Galbraith, 


In the castle, cased in steel. 


He who so well the bugle played. 


Knights, who fought at Agincourt, 


Could not mistake the words it said : 


Watched and waited, spur on heel ; 


" Come forth to thy death, 


But the poet sang for sport 


Victor Galbraith ! " 


Songs that rang 




Another clang, 


He looked at the earth, he looked at 


Songs that lowlier hearts could feel. 


the sky. 




He looked at the files of musketry, 


In the convent, clad in gray. 


Victor Galbraith ! 


Sat the monks in lonely cells. 


And he said, with a steady voice and 


Paced the cloisters, knelt to pray. 


eye. 


And the poet heard their bells ; 


" Take good aim ; I am ready to die ! " 


But his rhymes 


Thus challenges death 


Found other chimes, 


Victor Galbraith. 


Nearer to the earth than they. 






Twelve fiery tongues flashed straight 
and red. 


Gone are all the barons bold. 


Gone are all the knights and squires, 


Six leaden balls on their errand sped ; 


Gone the abbot stern and cold. 


Victor Galbraith 


And the brotherhood of friars ; 


Falls to the ground, but he is not 


Not a name 


dead ; 


Remains to fame. 


His name was not stamped on those 


From those mouldering days of old ! 


balls of lead. 




And they only scath 


But the poet's memory here 


Victor Galbraith. 


Of the landscape makes a part ; 




Like the river, swift and clear. 


Three balls are in his breast and brain, 


Flows his song through many a 


But he rises out of the dust again. 


heart ; 


Victor Galbraith ! 


Haunting still 


The water he drinks has a bloody 


That ancient mill, 


stain ; 


In the Valley of the Vire. 


" kill me, and put me out of my 
pain ! " 




In his agony prayeth 


VICTOR GALBRAITH. 


Victor Galbraith. 


Under the walls of Monterey, 


Forth dart once more those tongues 


At daybreak the bugles began to play, 


of flame, 


Victor Galbraith ! 


And the bugler has died a death of 


In the mist of the morning damp and 


shame, 


gray, 


Victor Galbraith ! 



156 



MY LOST YOUTH. 



His soul has gone back to whence it 

came, 
And no one answers to the name, 

When the Sergeant saith, 

" Victor Galbraith ! " 

Under the walls of Monterey 

By night a bugle is heard to play, 
Victor Galbraith ! 

Through the mist of the valley damp 
and gray 

The sentinels hear the sound, and say, 
" That is the wraith 
Of Victor Galbraith ! " 



MY LOST YOUTH. 

Often I think of the beautiful town 

That is seated by the sea; 
Often in thought go up and down 
The pleasant streets of that dear old 
town, 
And my youth comes back to me. 
And a verse of a Lapland song 
Is haunting my memory still : 
"A boy's will is the wind's will. 
And the thoughts of youth are long, 
long thoughts." 

I can see the shadowy lines of its 
trees, 
And catch, in sudden gleams. 
The sheen of the far-surrounding seas. 
And islands that were the Hesperides 
Of all my boyish dreams. 

And the burden of that old song. 
It murmurs and whispers still : 
"A boy's will is the wind's will. 
And the thoughts of youth are long, 
long thoughts." 

I remember the black wharves and 
the slips, 
And the sea-tides tossing free ; 
And Spanish sailors with bearded 

lips. 
And the beauty and mystery of the 
ships. 
And the magic of the sea. 



And the voice of that wayward 

song 
Is singing and saying still : 
"A boy's will is the wind's will. 
And the thoughts of youth are long, 
long thoughts." 

I remember the bulwarks by the shore, 

And the fort upon the hill ; 
The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar, 
The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er, 
And the bugle wild and shrill. 
And the music of that old song 
Throbs in my memory still : 
" A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, 
long thoughts." 

I remember the sea-fight far away, 
How it thundered o'er the tide ! 
And the dead captains, as they lay 
In their graves, o'erlooking the tran- 
quil bay, 
Where they in battle died. 

And the sound of that mournful 

song 
Goes through me with a thrill : 
"A boy's will is the wind's will. 
And the thoughts of youth are long, 
long thoughts." 

I can see the breezy dome of groves. 

The shadows of Deering's 'Woods ; 

And the friendships old and the early 

loves 
Come back with a sabbath sound, as 
of doves 
In quiet neighborhoods. 

And the verse of that sweet old 

song. 
It flutters and murmurs still : 
"A boy's will is the wind's will. 
And the thoughts of youth are long, 
long thoughts." 

I remember the gleams and glooms 
that dart 
Across the schoolboy's brain ; 
The song and the silence in the heart, 



THE ROPEWALK. 



157 



That in part are prophecies, and in 
part 
Are longings wild and vain. 

And the voice of that fitful 

song 
Sings on, and is never still : 
" A boy's will is the wind 's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, 
long thoughts." 

There are things of which I may not 
speak ; 
There are dreams that cannot die ; 
There are thoughts that make the 

strong heart weak, 
And bring a pallor into the cheek, 
And a mist before the eye. 

And the words of that fatal 

song 
Come over me like a chill : 
" A boy's will is the wind's will. 
And the thoughts of youth are long, 
long thoughts." 

Strange to me now are the forms I 
meet 
When I visit the dear old town ; 
But the native air is pure and sweet, 
And the trees that o'ershadow each 
well-known street. 
As they balance up and down. 
Are singing the beautiful song, 
Are sighing and whispering still : 
" A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, 
long thoughts." 

And Deering's Woods are fresh and 
fair. 
And with joy that is almost pain 
My heart goes back to wander there, 
And among the dreams of the days 
that were 
I find my lost youth again, 

And the strange and beautiful 

song. 
The groves are repeating it still : 
" A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, 
long thoughts." 



THE ROPEWALK. 

In that building, long and low, 
With its windows all a-row, 

Like the port-holes of a hulk, 
Human spiders spin and spin. 
Backward down their threads so thin 

Dropping each a hempen bulk. 

At the end, an open door; 
Squares of sunshine on the floor 

Light the long and dusky lane ; 
And the whirring of a wheel, 
Dull and drowsy, makes me feel 

All its spokes are in my brain. 

As the spinners to the end 
Downward go and reascend. 

Gleam the long threads in the sun ; 
While within this brain of mine 
Cobwebs brighter and more fine 

By the busy wheel are spun. 

Two fair maidens in a swing, 
Like white doves upon the wing, 

First before my vision pass ; 
Laughing, as their gentle hands 
Closely clasp the twisted strands, 

At their shadow on the grass. 

Then a booth of mountebanks, 
With its smell of tan and planks, 

And a girl poised high in air 
On a cord, in spangled dress, 
With a faded loveliness. 

And a weary look of care. 

Then a homestead among farms, 
And a woman with bare arms 

Drawing water from a well ; 
As the bucket mounts apace. 
With it mounts her own fair face. 

As at some magician's spell. 

Then an old man in a tower. 
Ringing loud the noontide hour. 
While the rope coils round and 
round 
Like a serpent at his feet, 



158 THE GOLDEN 


MILE-STONE. 


And again, in swift retreat, 


Here and there the lamps of evening 


Nearly lifts him from tlie ground. 


glimmer, 




Social watch-fires 


Then within a prison-yard, 


Answering one another through the 


Faces fixed, and stern, and hard, 


darkness. 


Laughter and indecent mirth ; 




Ah ! it is the gallows-tree ! 


On the hearth the lighted logs are 


Breath of Christian charity, 


glowing. 


Blow, and sweep it from the earth ! 


And like Ariel in the cloven pine-tree 




For its freedom 


Then a schoolboy, with his kite 


Groans and sighs the air imprisoned 


Gleaming in a sky of light, 


in them. 


And an eager, upward look; 




Steeds pursued through lane and field ; 


By the fireside there are old men 


Fowlers with their snares concealed ; 


seated. 


And an angler by a brook. 


Seeing ruined cities in the ashes, 




Asking sadly 


Ships rejoicing in the breeze. 


Of the Past what it can ne'er restore 


Wrecks that float o'er unknown seas. 


them. 


Anchors dragged through faithless 




sand; 


By the fireside there are youthful 


Sea-fog drifting overhead. 


dreamers. 


And, with lessening line and lead, 


Building castles fair, with stately stair- 


Sailors feeling for the land. 


ways. 




Asking blindly 


All these scenes do I behold. 


Of the Future what it cannot give 


These, and many left untold. 


them. 


In that building long and low ; 




While the wheel goes round and round, 


By the fireside tragedies are acted. 


With a drowsy, dreamy sound. 


In whose scenes appear two actors 


And the spinners backward go. 


only. 




Wife and husband. 




And above them God the sole spec- 


THE GOLDEN MILE-STONE. 


tator. 


Leafless are the trees ; their purple 


By the fireside there are peace and 


branches 


comfort, 


Spread themselves abroad, like reefs 


Wives and children, with fair, thought- 


of coral, 


ful faces, 


Rising silent 


Waiting, watching 


In the Red Sea of the Winter sunset. 


For a well-known footstep in the pas- 


From the hundred chimneys of the 


sage. 


village, 


Each man's chimney is his Golden 


Like the Afreet in the Arabian story, 


Mile-stone ; 


Smoky columns 


Is the central point, from which he 


Tower aloft into the air of amber. 


measures 




Every distance 


At the window winks the flickering 


Through the gateways of the world 


fire-light ; 


around him. 



CATAWBA WINE. 



159 



In his farthest wanderings still he 
sees it ; 

Hears the talking flame, the answer- 
ing night-wind, 

As he heard them 

When he sat with those who were, but 
are not. 

Happy he whom neither wealth nor 
fashion, 

Nor the march of the encroaching city. 
Drives an exile 

From the hearth of his ancestral home- 
stead. 

We may build more splendid habita- 
tions. 

Fill our rooms with paintings and with 
sculptures. 

But we cannot 

Buy with gold the old associations ! 



; CATAWBA WINE. 

This song of mine 

Is a Song of the Vine, 
To be sung by the glowing embers 

Of wayside inns, 

When the rain begins 
To darken the drear Novembers. 

It is not a song 

Of the Scuppernong, 
From warm Carolinian valleys, 

Nor the Isabel 

And the Muscadel 
That bask in our garden alleys. 

Nor the red Mustang, 

Whose clusters hang 
O'er the waves of the Colorado, 

And the fiery flood 

Of whose purple blood 
Has a dash of Spanish bravado. 

For richest and best 
Is the wine of the West, 
That grows by the Beautiful River ; 
Whose sweet perfume 



Fills all the room 
With a benison on the giver. 

And as hollow trees 

Are the haunts of bees. 
Forever going and coming ; 

So this crystal hive 

Is all alive 
With a swarming and buzzing and 
humming. 

Very good in its way 

Is the Verzenay, 
Or the Sillery soft and creamy ; 

But Catawba wine 

Has a taste more divine. 
More dulcet, dehcious, and dreamy. 

There grows no vine 

By the haunted Rhine, * 

By Danube or Guadalquivir, 

Nor on island or cape. 

That bears such a grape 
As grows by the Beautiful River. 

Drugged is their juice 
For foreign use. 
When shipped o'er tKe reeling At- 
lantic, 
To rack our brains 
With the fever pains. 
That have driven the Old World, 
frantic. 

To the sewers and sinks 

With all such drinks. 
And after them tumble the mixer ; 

For a poison malign 

Is such Borgia wine, 
Or at best but a Devil's Elixir. 

While pure as a spring 

Is the wine I sing. 
And to praise it, one needs but name 
it; 

For Catawba wine 

Has need of no sign. 
No tavern-bush to proclaim it. 



i6o SANTA FILOMENA. — THE DISCOVERER OF THE NORTH CAPE. 



And this Song of the Vine, 

This greeting of mine, 
The winds and the birds shall deliver 

To the Queen of the West, 

In her garlands dressed, 
On the banks of the Beautiful River. 



SANTA FILOMENA. 

Whene'er a noble deed is wrought, 
Whene'er is spoken a noble thought, 

Our hearts, in glad surprise, 

To higher levels rise. 

The tidal wave of deeper souls 
Into our inmost being rolls. 

And lifts us unawares 

Out of all meaner cares. 

• Honor to those whose words or deeds 
Thus help us in our daily needs. 
And by their overflow 
Raise us from what is low ! 

Thus thought I, as by night I read 
Of the great army of the dead, 
The trenches cold and damp, 
The starved and frozen camp, — 

The wounded from the battle-plain. 

In dreary hospitals of pain. 
The cheerless corridors, 
The cold and stony floors. 

Lo ! in that house of misery 
A lady with a lamp I see 

Pass through the glimmering 
gloom, 

And flit from room to room. 

And slow, as in a dream of bliss, 
The speechless sufferer turns to kiss 
Her shadow, as it falls 
Upon the darkening walls. 

As if a door in heaven should be 
Opened and than closed suddenly, 
The vision came and went. 
The light shone and was spent. 



On England's annals, through the 

long 
Hereafter of her speech and song, 

That light its rays shall cast 

From portals of the past. 

A Lady with a Lamp shall stand 
In the great history of the land, 

A noble type of good. 

Heroic womanhood. 

Nor even shall be wanting here 
The palm, the lily, and the spear, 

The symbols that of yore 

Saint Filomena bore. 



THE DISCOVERER OF THE 
NORTH CAPE. 

A LEAF FROM KING ALFRED'S 
OROSIUS. 

Othere, the old sea-captain. 

Who dwelt in Helgoland, 
To King Alfred, the Lover of Truth, 
Brought a snow-white walrus-tooth, 

Which he held in his brown right 
hand. 

His figure was tall and stately, 

Like a boy's his eye appeared ; 
His hair was yellow as hay, 
But threads of a silvery gray 
Gleamed in his tawny beard. 

Hearty and hale was Othere, 

His cheek had the color of oak ; 
With a kind of laugh in his speech, 
Like the sea-tide on a beach. 
As unto the King he spoke. 

And Alfred, King of the Saxons, 
Had a book upon his knees, 

And wrote down the wondrous tale 

Of him who was first to sail 
Into the Arctic seas. 

" So far I live to the northward, 
No man lives north of me ; 



THE DISCOVERER OF THE NORTH CAPE. 



i6i 



To the east are wild mountain-chains, 
And beyond them meres and plains ; 
To the westward all is sea. 

" So far I live to the northward, 

From the harbor of Skeringes-hale, 
If you only sailed by day, 
With a fair wind all the way, 

More than a month would you sail. 

" I own six hundred reindeer, 

With sheep and swine beside ; 
I have tribute from the Finns, 
Whalebone and reindeer-skins, 
And ropes of walrus-hide. 

" I ploughed the land with horses, 
But my heart was ill at ease, 

For the old seafaring men 

Came to me now and then. 

With their sagas of the seas ; — 

" Of Iceland and of Greenland, 
And the stormy Hebrides, 

And the undiscovered deep ; — 

I could not eat nor sleep 
For thinking of those seas. 

"To the northward stretched the 
desert, 

How far I fain would know ; 
So at last I sallied forth, 
And three days sailed due north, 

As far as the whale-ships go. 

"To the west of me was the ocean, 

To the right the desolate shore. 
But I did not slacken sail 
For the walrus or the whale. 
Till after three days more. 

" The days grew longer and longer, 

Till they became as one, 
And southward through the haze 
I saw the sullen blaze 

Of the red midnight sun. 

" And then uprose before me, 

Upon the water's edge, 
The huge and haggard shape 



Of that unknown North Cape, 
Whose form is like a wedge. 

" The sea was rough and stormy. 

The tempest howled and wailed, 
And the sea-fog, like a ghost, 
Haunted that dreary coast, 
But onward still I sailed. 

" Four days I steered to eastward, 

Four days without a night : 
Round in a fiery ring 
Went the great sun, O King, 
With red and lurid light." 

Here Alfred, King of the Saxons, 

Ceased writing for a while ; 
And raised his eyes from his book, 
With a strange and puzzled look. 
And an incredulous smile. 

But Othere, the old sea-captain. 

He neither paused nor stirred. 

Till the King listened, and then 

Once more took up his pen. 

And wrote down every word. 

" And now the land," said Othere, 
" Bent southward suddenly. 

And I followed the curving shore 

And ever southward bore 
Into a nameless sea. 

"And there we hunted the walrus, 
The narwhale, and the seal ; 

Ha ! 't was a noble game ! 

And like the lightning's flame 
Flew our harpoons of steel. 

"There were six of us all together, 

Norsemen of Helgoland ; 
In two days and no more 
We killed of them threescore, 



Here Alfred the Truth-Teller 
Suddenly closed his book. 

And lifted his blue eyes. 

With doubt and strange surmise 
Depicted in their look. 



i62 DAYBREAK.— THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF AGASSIZ. 



And 0th ere the old sea-captain 
Stared at him wild and weird, 
Then smiled, till his shining teeth 
Gleamed white from underneath 
His tawny, quivering beard. 

And to the King of the Saxons, 

In witness of the truth, 
Raising his noble head. 
He stretched his brown hand, and said, 

" Behold this walrus-tooth ! " 



DAYBREAK. 

A WIND came up out of the sea, 
And said, " O mists, make room for 
me." 



It hailed the ships, and cried, " Sail 

on, 
Ye mariners, the night is gone." 

And hurried landward far away. 
Crying, " Awake ! it is the day." 

It said unto the forest, " Shout ! 
Hang all your leafy banners out ! " 

It touched the wood-bird's folded 

wing, 
And said, '^ O bird, awake and sing." 

And o'er the farms, " O chanticleer, 
Your clarion blow ; the day is near." 

It whispered to the fields of corn, 
"Bow down, and hail the coming 
morn." 

It shouted through the belfry-tower, 
" Awake, O bell ! proclaim the hour." 

It crossed the churchyard with a sigh. 
And said, " Not yet ! in quiet lie." 



THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY 
OF AGASSIZ. 

MAY 28, 1857. 

It was fifty years ago. 

In the pleasant month of May, 
In the beautiful Fays de Vaud, 

A child in its cradle lay. 

And Nature, the old nurse, took 

The child upon her knee. 
Saying : " Here is a story-book 

Thy Father has written for thee." 

"Come, wander with me," she said, 
" Into regions yet untrod ; 

And read what is still unread 
In the manuscripts of God." 

And he wandered away and away 
With Nature, the dear old nurse. 

Who sang to him night and day 
The rhymes of the universe. 

And whenever the way seemed long, 
Or his heart began to fail. 

She would sing a more wonderful 
song, 
Or tell a more marvellous tale. 



So she keeps him still a child, • 

And will not let him go, 
Though at times his heart beats wild 

For the beautiful Pays de Vaud ; 

Though at times he hears in his 
dreams 

The Ranz des Vaches of old. 
And the rush of mountain streams 

From glaciers clear and cold ; 

And the mother at home says, " Hark ! 

For his voice I listen and yearn ; 
It is growing late and dark. 

And my boy does not return ! " 



CHILDREN. — SANDALPHON. 



163 



CHILDREN. 

Come to me, O ye children ! 

For I hear you at your play, 
And the questions that perplexed me 

Have vanished quite away. 

Ye open the eastern windows, 
That look towards the sun, 

Where thoughts are singing swallows, 
And the brooks of morning run. 

In your hearts are the birds and the 
sunshine, 

In your thoughts the brooklet^s flow. 
But in mine is the wind of Autumn, 

And the first fall of the snow. 

Ah ! what would the world be to us 
If the children were no more ? 

We should dread the desert behind us 
Worse than the dark before. 

What the leaves are to the forest, 
With light and air for food. 

Ere their sweet and tender juices 
Have been hardened into wood, — 

That to the world are children ; 

Through them it feels the glow 
Of a brighter and sunnier chmate 

Than reaches the trunks below. 

Come to me, O ye children ! 

And whisper in my ear 
What the birds and the winds are 
singing 

In yoi'x sunny atmosphere. 

For what are all our contrivings, 
And the wisdom of our books. 

When compared with your caresses, 
And the gladness of your looks ? 

Ye are better than all the ballads 
That ever were sung or said ; 

For ye are living poems, 
And all the rest are dead. 



SANDALPHON. 

Have you read in the Talmud of old. 
In the Legends the Rabbins have told 

Of the limitless realms of the air, — 
Have you read it, — the marvellous 

story 
Of Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory, 

Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer ? 

How, erect, at the outermost gates 
Of the City Celestial he w-aits. 

With his feet on the ladder of light, 
That, crowded with angels unnum- 
bered. 
By Jacob was seen as he slumbered 

Alone in the desert at night ? 

The Angels of Wind and of Fire 
Chant only one hym.n, and expire 

With the song^s irresistible stress ; 
Expire in their rapture and wonder, 
As harp-strings are broken asunder 

By music they throb to express. 

But serene in the rapturous throng, 
Unmoved by the rush of the song, 

With eyes unimpassioned and slow, 
Among the dead angels, the deathless 
Sandalphon stands listening breath- 
less 
To sounds that ascend from be- 
low ; — 

From the spirits on earth that adore, 

From the souls that entreat and 

implore 

In the fervor and passion of prayer ; 

From the hearts that are broken with 

losses. 
And weary with dragging the crosses 
Too heavy for mortals to bear. 

And he gathers the prayers as he 

stands, 
And they change into flow^ers in his 

hands. 
Into garlands of purple and red ; 



164 



EPIMETHEUS. 



And beneath the great arch of the 

portal, 
Through the streets of the City 

Immortal 
Is wafted the fragrance they shed. 

It is but a legend, I know, — 
A fable, a phantom, a show, 

Of the ancient Rabbinical lore ; 
Yet the old mediaeval tradition, 
The beautiful, strange superstition, 

But haunts me and holds me the 
more. 

When I look from my window at 

night, 
And the welkin above is all white, 
All throbbing and panting with 
stars. 
Among them majestic is standing 
Sandalphon the angel, expanding 
His pinions in nebulous bars. 

And the legend, I feel, is a part 

Of the hunger and thirst of the heart, 

The frenzy and fire of the brain. 
That grasps at the fruitage forbidden, 
The golden pomegranates of Eden, 

To quiet its fever and pain. 



EPIMETHEUS, 

OR THE poet's AFTERTHOUGHT. 

Have I dreamed ? or was it real, 
What I saw as in a vision. 

When to marches hymeneal 

In the land of the Ideal 

Moved my thought o'er Fields 
Elysian ? 

What ! are these the guests whose 
glances 
Seemed like sunshine gleaming 
round me ? 
These the wild, bewildering fancies, 
That with dithyrambic dances 
As with magic circles bound me ? 



Ah ! how cold are their caresses ! 

Pallid cheeks, and haggard bosoms! 
Spectral gleam their snow-white 

dresses. 
And from loose, dishevelled tresses 

Fall the hyacinthine blossoms ! 

O my songs ! whose winsome meas- 
ures 

Filled my heart with secret rapture ! 
Children of my golden leisures ! 
Must even your delights and pleasures 

Fade and perish with the capture ? 

Fair they seemed, those songs sono- 
rous. 

When they came to me unbidden ; 
Voices single, and in chorus. 
Like the wild birds singing o'er us 

In the dark of branches hidden. 

Disenchantment ! Disillusion ! 

Must each noble aspiration 
Come at last to this conclusion, 
Jarring discord, wild confusion, 

Lassitude, renunciation ? 

Not with steeper fall nor faster, 
From the sun's serene dominions. 

Not through brighter realms nor 
vaster. 

In swift ruin and disaster, 

Icarus fell with shattered pinions ! 

Sweet Pandora ! dear Pandora ! 

Why did mighty Jove create thee 
Coy as Thetis, fair as Flora, 
Beautiful as young Aurora, 

If to win thee is to hate thee ? 

No, not hate thee ! for this feeling 

Of unrest and long resistance 
Is but passionate appealing, 
A prophetic whisper stealing 
O'er the chords of our existence. 

Him whom thou dost once enamour, 
Thou, beloved, never leavest ; 



EVANGELINE. 



165 



In life's discord, strife, and clamor. 
Still he feels thy spell of glamour ; 
Him of Hope thou ne'er bereavest. 

Weary hearts by thee are lifted, 
Struggling souls by thee are 
strengthened, 
Clouds of fear asunder rifted. 
Truth from falsehood cleansed and 
sifted, 
Lives, like days in summer, length- 
ened ! 



Therefore art thou ever dearer, 

O my Sibyl, my deceiver ! 
For thou makest each mystery clearer, 
And the unattained seems nearer. 

When thou fillest my heart with 
fever ! 

Muse of all the Gifts and Graces ! 

Though the fields around us wither, 
There are ampler realms and spaces. 
Where no foot has left its traces ; 

Let us turn and wander thither ! 



EVANGELINE. 



A TALE OF ACADIE. 



1847. 



This is the forest primeval. The 
murmuring pines and the hem- 
locks. 

Bearded with moss, and in garments 
green, indistinct in the twi- 
light. 

Stand like Druids of eld, with voices 
sad and prophetic. 

Stand like harpers hoar, with beards 
that rest on their bosoms. 

Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep- 
voiced neighboring ocean 

Speaks, and in accents disconsolate 
answers the wail of the forest. 

This is the forest primeval ; but 
where are the hearts that be- 
neath it 

Leaped like the roe, when he hears 
in the woodland the voice of the 
huntsman ? 

Where is the thatch-roofed village, 
the home of Acadian farmers, — 

Men whose lives glided on like rivers 
that water the woodlands, 

Darkened by shadows of earth, but 
reflecting an image of heaven ? 

Waste are those pleasant farms, and 
the farmers forever departed ! 



Scattered like dust and leaves, when 
the mighty blasts of October 

Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and 
sprinkle them far o'er the ocean. 

Naught but tradition remains of the 
beautiful village of Grand-Pre. 

Ye who believe in affection that 

hopes, and endures, and is 

patient. 
Ye who believe in the beauty and 

strength of woman's devotion. 
List to the mournful tradition still 

sung by the pines of the forest ; 
List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, 

home of the happy. 

Part the First. 
I. 

In the Acadian land, on the shores of 
the Basin of Minas, 

Distant, secluded, still, the little vil- 
lage of Grand-Pre 

Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast 
meadows stretched to the east- 
ward, • 

Giving the village its name, and pas- 
ture to flocks without number. 



166 



EVANGELINE. 



Dikes, that the hands of the farmers 
had raised with labor incessant, 

Shut out the turbulent tides ; but at 
stated seasons the flood-gates 

Opened, and welcomed the sea to 
wander at will o'er the meadows. 

West and south there were fields of 
flax, and orchards and corn- 
fields 

Spreading afar and unfenced o'er the 
plain ; and away to the north- 
ward 

Blomidon rose, and the forests old, 
and aloft on the mountains 

Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists 
from the mighty Atlantic 

Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er 
from their station descended. 

There, in the midst of its farms, re- 
posed the Acadian village. 

Strongly built were the houses, with 
frames of oak and of chestnut. 

Such as the peasants of Normandy 
built in the reign of the Henries. 

Thatched were the roofs, with dormer- 
windows ; and gables projecting 

Over the basement below protected 
and shaded the door-way. 

There in the tranquil evenings of 
summer, when brightly the sun- 
set 

Lighted the village street, and gilded 
the vanes on the chimneys, 

Matrons and maidens sat in snow- 
white caps and in kirtles 

Scarlet and blue and green, with dis- 
taffs spinning the golden 

Flax for the gossiping looms, whose 
noisy shuttles within doors 

Mingled their sound with the whir of 
the wheels and the songs of the 
maidens. 

Solemnly down the street came the 
parish priest, and the children 

Paused in their play to kiss the hand 
he extended to bless them. 

Reverend walked he among them ; and 
up rose matrons and. maidens. 

Hailing his slow approach with words 
of affectionate welcome. 



Then came the laborers home from 
the field, and serenely the sun 
sank 

Down to his rest, and twilight pre- 
vailed. Anon from the belfry 

Softly the Angelus sounded, and over 
the roofs of the village 

Columns of pale-blue smoke, hke 
clouds of incense ascending, 

Rose from a hundred hearths, the 
homes of peace and content- 
ment. 

Thus dwelt together in love these 
simple Acadian farmers, — 

Dwelt in the love of God and of man. 
Alike were they free from 

Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and 
envy, the vice of republics. 

Neither locks had they to their doors, 
nor bars to their windows ; 

But their dwellings were open as day 
and the hearts of the owners ; 

There the richest was poor, and the 
poorest lived in abundance. 

Somewhat apart from the village, 
and nearer the Basin of Minas, 

Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest 
farmer of Grand-Pre, 

Dwelt on his goodly acres ; and with 
him, directing his household. 

Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and 
the pride of the village. 

Stalworth and stately in form was the 
man of seventy winters ; 

Hearty and hale was he, an oak that 
is covered with snow-flakes ; 

White as the snow were his locks, and 
his cheeks as brown as the oak- 
leaves. 

Fair was she to behold, that maiden 
of seventeen summers. 

Black were her eyes as the berry that 
grows on the thorn by the way- 
side. 

Black, yet how softly they gleamed 
beneath the brown shade of her 
tresses ! 

Sweet was her breath as the breath 
of kine that feed in the meadows. 



I 



EVANGELINE. 



167 



When in the harvest heat she bore to 

the reapers at noontide 
Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah ! fair 

in sooth was the maiden. 
Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, 

while the bell from its turret 
Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, 

as the priest with his hyssop 
Sprinkles the congregation, and scat- 
ters blessings upon them, 
Down the long street she passed, 

with her chaplet of beads and 

her missal. 
Wearing her Norman cap, and her 

kirtie of blue, and the ear-rings 
Brought in the olden time from France, 

and since, as an heirloom. 
Handed down from mother to child, 

through long generations. 
But a celestial brightness — a more 

ethereal beauty — 
Shone on her face and encircled her 

form, when, after confession, 
Homeward serenely she walked with 

God's benediction upon her. 
When she had passed, it seemed like 

the ceasing of exquisite music. 
Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the 

house of the farmer 
Stood on the side of a hill, command- 
ing the sea, and a shady 
Sycamore grew by the door, with a 

woodbine wreathing around it. 
Rudely carved was the porch, with 

seats beneath ; and a footpath 
Led through an orchard wide, and 

disappeared in the meadow. 
Under the sycamore-tree were hives 

overhung by a penthouse, 
Such as the traveller sees in regions 

remote by the road-side. 
Built o'er a box for the poor, or the 

blessed image of Mary. 
Farther down, on the slope of the hill, 

was the well with its moss-grown 
Bucket, fastened with iron, and near 

it a trough for the horses- 
Shielding the house from storms, on 

the north, were the barns and 

the farm-yard. 



There stood the broad-wheeled wains 
and the antique ploughs and the 
harrows ; 

There were the folds for the sheep ; 
and there, in his feathered se- 
raglio, 

Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed 
the cock, with the selfsame 

Voice that in ages of old had startled 
the penitent Peter. 

Bursting with hay were the barns, 
themselves a village. In each 
one 

Far o'er the gable projected a roof of 
thatch ; and a staircase. 

Under the sheltering eaves, led up to 
the odorous corn-loft. 

There too the dove-cot stood, with its 
meek and innocent inmates 

Murmuring ever of love ; while above 
in the variant breezes 

Numberless noisy weathercocks rat- 
tled and sang of mutation. 

Thus, at peace with God and the 
world, the farmer of Grand-Prd 

Lived on his sunny farm, and Evange- 
line governed his household. 

Many a youth, as he knelt in the 
church and opened his missal, 

Fixed his eyes upon her, as the saint 
of his deepest devotion ; 

Happy was he who might touch her 
hand or the hem of her garment ! 

Many a suitor came to her door, by 
the darkness befriended. 

And as he knocked and v/aited to 
hear the sound of her footsteps. 

Knew not which beat the louder, his 
heart or the knocker of iron ; 

Or at the joyous feast of the Patron 
Saint of the village. 

Bolder grew, and pressed her hand 
in the dance as he whispered 

Hurried words of love, that seemed 
a part of the music. 

But, among all who came, young Ga- 
briel only was welcome ; 

Gabriel Lajeunesse, the son of Basil 
the blacksmith, 



i68 



EVANGELINE. 



Who was a mighty man in the village, 

and honored of all men ; 
For since the birth of time, through- 
out all ages and nations, 
Has the craft of the smith been held 

in repute by the people. 
Basil was Benedict's friend. Their 

children from earliest childhood 
Grew up together as brother and 

sister ; and Father Felician, 
Priest and pedagogue both in the 

village, had taught them their 

letters 
Out of the selfsame book, with the 

hymns of the church and the 

plain-song. 
But when the hymn was sung, and 

the daily lesson completed, 
Swiftly they hurried away to the forge 

of Basil the blacksmith. 
There at the door they stood, with 

wondering eyes to behold him 
Take in his leathern lap the hoof of 

the horse as a plaything. 
Nailing the shoe in its place ; while 

near him the tire of the cart-wheel 
Lay like a fiery snake, coiled round 

in a circle of cinders. 
Oft on autumnal eves, when without 

in the gathering darkness 
Bursting with light seemed the 

smithy, through every cranny 

and crevice, 
Warm by the forge within they watched 

the laboring bellows. 
And as its panting ceased, and the 

sparks expired in the ashes. 
Merrily laughed, and said they were 

nuns going into the chapel. 
Oft on sledges in winter, as swift as 

the swoop of the eagle, 
Down the hill-side bounding, they 

glided away o'er the meadow. 
Oft in the barns they climbed to the 

populous nests on the rafters, 
Seeking with eager eyes that won- 
drous stone, which the swallow 
Brings from the shore of the sea to 

restore the sight of its fledg- 
lings ; 



Lucky was he who found that stone 

in the nest of the swallow ! 
Thus passed a few swift years, and 

they no longer were children. 
He was a valiant youth, and his face, 

like the lace of the morning, 
Gladdened^ the earth with its light, 

and ripened thought into action. 
She was a woman now, with the heart 

and hopes of a woman. 
"Sunshine of Saint Eulalie" was she 

called ; for that was the sunshine 
Which, as the farmers believed, would 

load their orchards with apples ; 
She, too, would bring to her husband's 

house deliglit and abundance. 
Filling it fall of love, and the ruddy 

faces of children. 



Now had the season returned, when 
the nights grow colder and longer, 

And the retreating sun the sign of the 
Scorpion enters. 

Birds of passage sailed through the 
leaden air from the ice-bound. 

Desolate northern bays to the shores 
of tropical islands. 

Harvests were gathered in ; and wild 
with the winds of September 

Wrestled the trees of the forest, as 
Jacob of old with the angel. 

All the signs foretold a winter long 
and inclement. 

Bees, with prophetic instinct of want, 
had hoarded their honey 

Till the hives overflowed; and the 
Indian hunters asserted 

Cold would the winter be, for thick 
was the fur of the foxes. 

Such was the advent of autumn. Then 
followed that beautiful season. 

Called by the pious Arcadian peasants 
the Summer of All-Saints ! 

Filled was the air with a dreamy and 
magical light ; and the land- 
scape 

Lay as if new-created in all the fresh- 
ness of childhood. 



EVANGELINE. 



169 



Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and 
the restless heart of the ocean 

Was for a moment consoled. All 
sounds were in harmony blended. 

Voices of children at play, the crowing 
of cocks in the farm-yards, 

Whir of wings in the drowsy air, and 
the cooing of pigeons, 

All were subdued and low as the mur- 
murs of love, and the great sun 

Looked with the eye of love through 
the golden vapors around him ; 
/ While arrayed in its robes of russet 
and scarlet and yellow, 

Bright with the sheen of the dew^, each 
glittering tree of the forest 

Flashed like the plane-tree the Persian 
adorned with mantles and jewels. 

Now recommenced the reign of rest 
and affection and stillness. 

Day with its burden and heat had de- 
parted, and twilight descending 

Brought back the evening star to the 
sky, and the herds to the home- 
stead. 

Pawing the ground they came, and 
resting their necks on each other, 

And with their nostrils distended in- 
haling the freshness of evening. 

Foremost, bearing the bell, Evange- 
line's beautiful heifer. 

Proud of her snow-white hide, and 
the ribbon that waved from her 
collar, 

Quietly paced and slow, as if conscious 
of human affection. 

Then came the shepherd back with his 
bleating flocks from the seaside, 

Where was their favorite pasture. 
Behind them followed the watch- 
dog, ' 

Patient, full of importance, and grand 
in the pride of his instinct. 

Walking from side to side with a 
lordly air, and superbly 

Waving his bushy tail, and urging for- 
ward the stragglers ; 

Regent of flocks was he when the 
shepherd slept; their protector, 



When from the forest at night, 

through the starry silence, the 

wolves howled. 
Late, with the rising moon, returned 

the wains from the marshes. 
Laden with briny hay, that filled the 

air with its odor. 
Cheerily neighed the steeds, with dew 

on their manes and their fet- 
locks. 
While aloft on their shoulders the 

wooden and ponderous saddles, 
Painted with brilliant dyes, and 

adorned with tassels of crimson. 
Nodded in bright array, like, holly- 
hocks heavy with blossoms. 
Patiently stood the cows meanwhile, 

and yielded their udders 
Unto the milkmaid's hand ; whilst loud 

and in regular cadence 
Into the sounding pails the foaming 

streamlets descended. 
Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter 

were heard in the farm-yard. 
Echoed back by the barns. Anon they 

sank into stillness ; 
Heavily closed, with a jarring sound, 

the valves of the barn-doors. 
Rattled the wooden bars, and all for a 

season was silent. 

In doors, warm by the wide-mouthed 
fireplace, idly the farmer 

Sat in his elbow-chair, and watched 
how the flames and the smoke- 
wreaths 

Struggled together like foes in a burn- 
ing city. Behind him, 

Nodding and mocking along the wall, 
with gestures fantastic. 

Darted his own huge shadow, and 
vanished away into darkness. 

Faces, clumsily carved in oak, on the 
back of his arm-chair 

Laughed in the flickering light, and 
the pewter plates on the dresser 

Caught and reflected the flame, as 
shields of armies the sunshine. 

Fragments of song the old man sang, 
and carols of Christmas, 



170 



EVANGELINE. 



Such as at home, in the olden time, 

his fathers before him 
Sang in their Norman orchards and 

bright Burgundian vmeyards. 
Close at her father's side was the 

gentle Evangeline seated, 
Spinning flax for the loom, that stood 

in the corner behind her. 
Silent awhile were its treadles, at rest 

was its diligent shuttle, 
While the monotonous drone of the 

wheel, like the drone of a bag- 
pipe. 
Followed the old man's song, and 

united the fragments together. 
As in a church, when the chant of the 

choir at intervals ceases. 
Footfalls are heard in the aisles, or 

words of the priest at the altar, 
So, in each pause of the song, 

with measured motion the clock 

chcked. 

Thus as they sat, there were foot- 
steps heard, and, suddenly lifted, 
Sounded the wooden latch, and the 

door swung back on its hinges. 
Benedict knew by the hob-nailed shoes 

it was Basil the blacksmith. 
And by her beating heart Evangeline 

knew who was with him. 
"Welcome!" the farmer exclaimed, 

as their footsteps paused on the 

threshold, 
"Welcome, Basil, my friend ! Come, 

take thy place on the settle 
Close by the chimney-side, which is 

always empty without thee ; 
Take from the shelf overhead thy pipe 

and the box of tobacco ; 
Never so. much thyself art thou as 

when through the curling 
Smoke of the pipe or the forge thy 

friendly and jovial face gleams 
Round and red as the harvest moon 

through the mist of the marshes." 
Then, with a smile of content, thus 

answered Basil the blacksmith. 
Taking with easy air the accustomed 

seat by the fireside : — 



" Benedict Bellefontaine, thou hast 
ever thy jest and thy ballad ! 

Ever in cheerfullest mood art thou, 
when others are filled with 

Gloomy forebodings of ill, and see 
only ruin before them. 

Happy art thou, as if every day thou 
hadst picked up a horseshoe." 

Pausing a moment, to take the pipe 
that Evangeline brought him, 

And with a coal from the embers had 
lighted, he slowly continued : — 

" Four days now are passed since the 
English ships at their anchors 

Ride in the Gaspereau's mouth, with 
their cannon pointed against us. 

What their design may be is un- 
known ; but all are commanded 

On the morrow to meet in the church, 
where his Majesty's mandate 

Will be proclaimed as law in the land. 
Alas ! in the meantime 

Many surmises of evil alarm the hearts 
of the people." 

Then made answer the farmer — 
"Perhaps some friendlier pur- 
pose 

Brings these ships to our shores. 
Perhaps the harvests in England 

By the untimely rains or untimelier 
heat have been blighted, 

And from our bursting barns they 
would feed their cattle and chil- 
dren." 

"Not so thinketh the folk in the 
village," said, warmly, the black- 
smith, 

Shaking his head, as in doubt ; then, 
heaving a sigh, he continued : — 

" Louisburg is not forgotten, nor 
Beau Sejour, nor Port Royal. 

Many already have fled tof the forest, 
and lurk on its outskirts, 

Waiting with anxious hearts the dubi- 
ous fate of to-morrow. 

Arms have been taken from us, and 
warlike weapons of all kinds ; 

Nothing is left but the blacksmith's 
sledge and the scythe of the 
mower." 



EVANGELINE. 



171 



Then with a pleasant smile made 

answer the jovial farmer : — 
"Safer are we unarmed, in the midst 

of our flocks and our cornfields, 
Safer within these peaceful dikes, 

besieged by the ocean, 
Than were our fathers m forts, be- 
sieged by the enemy^s cannon. 
Fear no evil, my friend, and to-night 

may no shadow of sorrow 
Fall on this house and hearth ; for 

this is the night of the contract. 
Built are the house and the barn. 

The merry lads of the village 
Strongly have built them and well ; 

and, breaking the glebe round 

about them. 
Filled the barn with hay, and the house 

with food for a twelvemonth. 
Rene Leblanc will be here anon, with 

his papers and inkhorn. 
Shall we not then be glad, and rejoice 

in the joy of our children ? " 
As apart by the window she stood, 

with her hand in her lover's. 
Blushing Evangeline heard the words 

that her father had spoken. 
And as they died on his lips the 

worthy notary entered. 



Bent like a laboring oar, that toils in 

the surf of the ocean. 
Bent, but not broken, by age was the 

form of the notary public ; 
Shocks of yellow hair, Hke the silken 

floss of the maize, hung 
Over his shoulders ; his forehead was 

high ; and glasses with horn bows 
Sat astride on his nose, with a look 

of wisdom supernal. 
Father of twenty children was he, and 

more than a hundred 
Children's children rode on his knee, 

and heard his great watch tick. 
Four long years in the times of the 

war had he languished a captive. 
Suffering much in an old French fort 

as the friend of the English. 



Now, though warier grown, without 

all guile or suspicion. 
Ripe in wisdom was he, but patient, 

and simple, and childlike. 
He was beloved by all, and most of 

all by the children ; 
For he told them tales of the Loup- 

garou in the forest, 
And of the goblin that came in the 

night to water the horses, 
And ot the white Letiche, the ghost 

of a child who unchristened 
Died, and was doomed to haunt un- 
seen the chambers of children ; 
And how on Christmas eve the oxen 

talked in the stable ; 
And how the fever was cured by a 

spider shut up in a nutshell, 
And of the marvellous powers of four- 
leaved clover and horseshoes,' 
With whatsoever else was writ in the 

lore of the village. 
Then up rose from his seat by the 

fireside Basil the blacksmith. 
Knocked from his pipe the ashes, 

and slowly extending his right 

hand, 
"Father Leblanc," he exclaimed, 

" thou hast heard the talk in the 

village, 
And, perchance, canst tell us some 

news of these ships and their 

errand." 
Then with modest demeanor made 

answer the notary public : — 
" Gossip enough have I heard, in 

sooth, yet am never the wiser ; 
And what their errand may be I 

know not better than others. 
Yet am I not of those who imagine 

some evil intention 
Brings them here, for we are at 

peace ; and why then molest 

us?" 
"God's name!" shouted the hasty 

and somewhat irascible black- 
smith ; 
" Must we in all things look for the 

how, and the why, and the 

wherefore ? 



172 



EVANGELINE. 



Daily injustice is done, and might is 

the right of the strongest ! " 
But, without heeding his warmth, 

continued the notary pubhc : — 
"Man is unjust, but God is just ; and 

finally justice 
Triumphs ; and well I remember a 

story, that often consoled me. 
When as a captive I lay in the old 

French fort at Port Royal." 
This was the old man's favorite tale, 

and he loved to repeat it 
When his neighbors complained that 

any injustice was done them. 
" Once in an ancient city, whose name 

I no longer remember. 
Raised aloft on a column, a brazen 

statue of Justice 
Stood in the public square, upholding 

the scales in its left hand. 
And in its right a sword, as an em- 
blem that justice presided 
Over the laws of the land, and the 

hearts and homes of the people. 
Even the birds had built their nests 

in the scales of the balance, 
Having no fear of the sword that 

flashed in the sunshine above 

them. 
But in the course of time the laws of 

the land were corrupted ; 
Might took the place of right, and the 

weak were oppressed, and the 

mighty 
Ruled with an iron rod. Then it 

chanced in a nobleman's palace 
That a necklace of pearls was lost, 

and ere long a suspicion 
Fell on an orphan girl who lived as 

maid in the household. 
She, after form of trial condemned to 

die on the scaffold. 
Patiently met her doom at the foot 

of the statue of Justice. 
As to her Father in heaven her inno- 
cent spirit ascended, 
Lo ! o'er the city a tempest rose ; and 

the bolts of the thunder 
Smote the statue of bronze, and hurled 

in wrath from its left hand 



Down on the pavement below the 
clattering scales of the balance. 

And in the hollow thereof was found 
the nest of a magpie. 

Into whose clay-built walls the neck- 
lace of pearls was inwoven." 

Silenced, but not convinced, when 
the story was ended, the black- 
smith 

Stood like a man who fain would 
speak, but findeth no language ; 

All his thoughts were congealed into 
lines on his face, as the vapors 

Freeze in fantastic shapes on the 
window-panes in the winter. 



Then Evangeline lighted the brazen 

lamp on the table. 
Filled, till it overflowed, the pewter 

tankard with home-brewed 
Nut-brown ale, that was famed for its 

strength in the viflage of Grand- 

Pre; 
While from his pocket the notary 

drew his papers and ink-horn. 
Wrote with a steady hand the date 

and the age of the parties,, 
Naming the dower of the bride in 

flocks of sheep and in cattle. 
Orderly all things proceeded, and 

duly and well were completed, 
And the great seal of the law was set 

like a sun on the margin. 
Then from his leathern pouch the 

farmer threw on the table 
Three times the old man's fee in solid 

pieces of silver; 
And the notary rising, and blessing 

the bride and the bridegroom, 
Lifted aloft the tankard of ale and 

drank to their welfare. 
Wiping the foam from his lip. he sol- 
emnly bowed and departed, 
Whfle in silence the others sat and 

mused by the fireside, 
Till Evangeline brought the draught- 
board out of its corner. 
Soon was the game begun. In 

friendly contention the old men 



EVANGELINE. 



"^n 



Laughed at each hicky hit, or unsuc- 
cessful manoeuvre, 

Laughed when a man was crowned, 
or a breach was made in the 
king-row. 

Meanwhile apart, in the twilight 
gloom of a window's embrasure. 

Sat the lovers, and whispered to- 
gether, beholding the moon rise 

Over the pallid sea and the silvery 
mist of the meadows. 

Silently one by one, in the infinite 
meadows of heaven, 
1 Blossomed the lovely stars, the for- 
get-me-nots of the angels. 



Thus passed the evening away. 

Anon the bell from the belfry 
Rang out the hour of nine, the village 

curfew, and straightway 
Rose the guests and departed; and 

silence reigned in the household. 
Many a farewell word and sweet 

good-night on the door-step 
Lingered long in Evangeline''s heart, 

and filled it with gladness. 
Carefully then were covered the 

embers that glowed on the 

hearth-stone. 
And on the oaken stairs resounded 

the tread of the farmer. 
Soon with a soundless step the foot 

of Evangeline followed. 
Up the staircase moved a luminous 

space in the darkness. 
Lighted less by the lamp than the 

shining face of the maiden. 
Silent she passed through the hall, 

and entered the door of her 

chamber. 
Simple that chamber was, with its 

curtains of white, and its clothes- 
press 
Ample and high, on whose spacious 

shelves were carefully folded 
Linen and woollen stuffs, by the hand 

of Evangeline woven. 
This was the precious dowei' she 

would bring to her husband in 



Better than flocks and herds, being 

proofs of her skill as a housewife. 
Soon she extinguished her lamp, for 

the mellow and radiant moonlight 
Streamed through the windows and 

lighted the room, till the heart of 

the maiden 
Swelled and obeyed its power, like the 

tremulous tides of the ocean. 
Ah ! she was fair, exceeding fair to 

behold, as she stood with 
Naked snow-white feet on the gleam- 
ing floor of her chamber ! 
Little she dreamed that below, among 

the trees of the orchard. 
Waited her lover and watched for 

the gleam of her lamp and her 

shadow. 
Yet were her thoughts of him, and at 

times a feeling of sadness 
Passed o'er her soul, as the sailing 

shade of clouds in the moonlight 
Flitted across the floor and darkened 

the room for a moment. 
And as she gazed from the window 

she saw serenely the moon pass 
Forth from the folds of a cloud, and 

one star follow her footsteps. 
As out of Abraham's tent young Ish- 

mael wandered with Hagar ! 



Pleasantly rose next morn the sun 

on the village of Grand-Pre, 
Pleasantly gleamed in the soft, sweet 

air the Basin of Minas, 
Where the ships, with their wavering 

shadows, were riding at anchor. 
Life had long been astir in the village, 

and clamorous labor 
Knocked with its hundred hands at 

the golden gates of the morning. 
Now from the country around, from 

the farms and the neighboring 

hamlets. 
Came in their holiday dresses the 

blithe Acadian peasants. 
Many a glad good-morrow and jocund 

laugh from the young folk 



174 



EVANGELINE. 



Made the bright air brighter, as up 
from the numerous meadows, 

Where no path could be seen but the 
track of wheels in the greensward. 

Group after group appeared, and 
joined, or passed on the high- 
way. 

Long ere noon, in the village all 
sounds of labor were silenced. 

Thronged were the streets with peo- 
ple ; and noisy groups at the 
house-doors 

Sat in the cheerful sun, and rejoiced 
and gossiped together. 

Every house was an inn, where all 
were welcomed and feasted ; 

For with this simple people, who lived 
like brotliers together. 

All things were held in common, and 
what one had was another's. 

Yet under Benedict's roof hospitality 
seemed more abundant : 

For Evangeline stood among the 
guests of her father ; 

Bright was her face with smiles, and 
words of welcome and gladness 

Fell from her beautiful lips, and 
blessed the cup as she gave it. 

Under the open sky, in the odorous 
air of the orchard, 

Bending with golden fruit, was spread 
the feast of betrothal. 

There in the shade of the porch were 
the priest and the notary seated ; 

There good Benedict sat, and sturdy 
Basil the blacksmith. 

Not far withdrawn from these, by the 
cider-press and the beehives, 

Michael the fiddler was placed, with 
the gayest of hearts and of waist- 
coats. 

Shadow and light from the leaves 
alternately played on his snow- 
white 

Hair, as it waved in the wind ; and 
the jolly face of the fiddler 

Glowed like a living coal when the 
ashes are blown from the em- 
bers. 



Gayly the old man sang to the vibrant 

sound of his fiddle, 
Tous les Bourgeois de Chartres, and 

Le Carilloji de Diinkerqiie, 
And anon with his wooden shoes beat 

time to the music. 
Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of 

the dizzying dances 
Under the orchard-trees and down the 

path to the meadows ; 
Old folk and young together, and 

children mingled among them. 
Fairest of all the maids was Evange- 
line, Benedict's daughter ! 
Noblest of all the youths was Gabriel, 

son of the blacksmith ! 

So passed the morning away. And 
lo ! with a summons sonorous 

Sounded the bell from its tower, and 
over the meadows a drum beat. 

Thronged ere long was the church 
with men. Without, in the 
churchyard. 

Waited the women. They stood by 
the graves, and hung on the head- 
stones 

Garlands of autumn-leaves and ever- 
greens fresh from the forest. 

Then came the guard from the ships, 
and marching proudly among 
them 

Entered the sacred portal. With loud 
and dissonant clangor 

Echoed the sound of their brazen 
drums from ceiling and case- 
ment, — 

Echoed a moment only, and slowly 
the ponderous portal 

Closed, and in silence the crowd 
awaited the will of the soldiers. 

Then uprose their commander, and 
spake from the steps of the altar. 

Holding aloft in his hands, with its 
seals, the royal commission. 

" You are convened this day," he said, 
" by his Majesty's orders. 

Clement and kind has he been ; but 
how you have answered his kind- 
ness, 



EVANGELINE. 



175 



Let your own hearts reply ! To my 
natural make and my temper 

Painful the task is I do, which to you 
I know must be grievous. 

Yet must I bow and obey, and deliver 
the will of our monarch ; 

Namely, that all your lands, and 
dwellings, and cattle of all kinds 

Forfeited be to the crown ; and that 
you yourselves from this province 

Be transported to other lands. God 
grant you may dwell there 

Ever as faithful subjects, a happy and 
peaceable people ! 

Prisoners now 1 declare you ; for such 
is his Majesty's pleasure ! " 

As, when the air is serene in the 
sultry solstice of summer. 

Suddenly gathers a storm, and the 
deadly shng of the hailstones 

Beats down the farmer's corn in the 
field and shatters his windows, 

Hiding the sun, and strewing the 
ground with thatch from the 
house-roofs. 

Bellowing fly the herds, and seek to 
break their enclosures ; 

So on the hearts of the people de- 
scended the words of the speaker. 

Silent a moment they stood in speech- 
less wonder, and then rose 

Louder and ever louder a wail of sor- 
row and anger, 

And, by one impulse moved, they 
madly rushed to the door-way. 

Vain was the hope of escape ; and 
cries and fierce imprecations 

Rang through the house of prayer ; 
and high o'er the heads of the 
others 

Rose, with his arms uplifted, the 
figure of Basil the blacksmith. 

As, on a stormy sea, a spar is tossed 
by the billows. 

Flushed was his face and distorted 
with passion ; and wildly he 
shouted : — 

" Down with the tyrants of England ! 
we never have sworn them al- 
legiance ! 



Death to these foreign soldiers, who 
seize on our homes and our 
harvests ! '' 

More he fain would have said, but the 
merciless hand of a soldier 

Smote him upon the mouth, and 
dragged him down to the pave- 
ment. 

In the midst of the strife and tu- 
mult of angry contention, 

Lo ! the door of the chancel opened, 
and Father Felician 

Entered, with serious mien, and as- 
cended the steps of the altar. 

Raising his reverend hand, with a 
gesture he awed into silence 

All that clamorous throng ; and thus 
he spake to his people ; 

Deep were his tones and solemn ; in 
accents measured and mournful 

Spake he, as, after the tocsin's alarum, 
distinctly the clock strikes. 

" What is this that ye do, my chil- 
dren ? what madness has seized 
you ? 

Forty years of my life have I labored 
among you, and taught you, 

Not in word alone, but in deed, to 
love one another ! 

Is this the fruit of my toils, of my 
vigils and prayers and priva- 
tions ? 

Have you so soon forgotten all lessons 
of love and forgiveness ? 

This is the house of the Prince of 
Peace, and would you profane it 

Thus with violent deeds and hearts 
overflowing with hatred ? 

Lo ! where the crucified Christ from 
his cross is gazing upon you ! 

See! in those sorrowful eyes what 
meekness and holy compassion! 

Hark ! how those hps still repeat 
the prayer, ' O Father, forgive 
them ! ' 

Let us repeat that prayer in the hour 
when the wicked assail us, 

Let us repeat it now, and say, ' O 
Father, forgive them ! ' " 



176 



EVANGELINE. 



Few were his words of rebuke, but 
deep in the hearts of his people 

Sank they, and sobs of contrition 
succeeded that passionate out- 
break ; 

And they repeated his prayer, and 
said, " O Father, forgive them ! " 

Then came the evening service. 

The tapers gleamed from the 

altar. 
Fervent and deep was the voice of 

the priest, and the people re- 
sponded. 
Not with their Hps alone, but their 

hearts ; and the Ave Maria 
Sang they, and fell on their knees, 

and their souls, with devotion 

translated. 
Rose on the ardor of prayer, like 

Elijah ascending to heaven. 

Meanwhile had spread in the vil- 
lage the tidings of ill, and on all 
sides 

Wandered, wailing, from house to 
house the women and children. 

Long at her father's door Evangeline 
stood, with her right hand 

Shielding her eyes from the level rays 
of the sun, that, descending. 

Lighted the village street with mys- 
terious splendor, and roofed each 

Peasant's cottage with golden thatch, 
and emblazoned its windows. 

Long within had been spread the 
snow-white cloth on the table ; 

There stood the wheaten loaf, and 
the honey fragrant with wild 
flowers ; 

There stood the tankard of ale, and 
the cheese fresh brought from 
the dairy ; 

And at the head of the board the 
great arm-chair of the farmer. 

Thus did Evangeline wait at her 
father's door, as the sunset 

Threw the long shadows of trees o'er 
the broad ambrosial meadows. 



Ah ! on her spirit within a deeper 

shadow had fallen. 
And from the fields of her soul a 

fragrance celestial ascended, — 
Charity, meekness, love, and hope, 

and forgiveness, and patience ! 
Then, all-forgetful of self, she wan- 
dered into the village, 
Cheering with looks and words the 

disconsolate hearts of the women. 
As o'er the darkening fields with 

lingering steps they departed. 
Urged by their household cares, and 

the weary feet of their children. 
Down sank the great red sun, and in 

golden, glimmering vapors 
Veiled the light of his face, like the 

Prophet descending from Sinai. 
Sweetly over the village the bell of 

the Angelus sounded. 

Meanwhile, amid the gloom, by the 

church Evangeline lingered. 
All was silent within ; and in vain at 

the door and the windows 
Stood she, and listened and looked, 

until, overcome by emotion 
" Gabriel I " cried she aloud with 

tremulous voice ; but no answer 
Came from the graves of the dead, 

nor the gloomier grave of the 

living. 
Slowly at length she returned to the 

tenantless house of her father. 
Smouldered the fire on the hearth, 

on the board stood the supper 

untasted, 
Empty and drear was each room, and 

haunted with phantoms of ter- 
ror. J 
Sadly echoed her step on the stair 

and the floor of her chamber. 
In the dead of the night she heard 

the whispering rain fall 
Loud on the withered leaves of the 

sycamore-tree by the window. 
Keenly the lightning flashed ; and the 

voice of the echoing thunder 
Told her that God was in heaven, and 

governed the world he created ! 



EVANGELINE. 



177 



Then she remembered the tale she 

had heard of the justice of 

heaven ; 
Soothed was her troubled soul, and 

she peacefully slumbered till 

morning. 



Four times the sun had risen and 
set ; and now on the fifth day 

Cheerily called the cock to the sleep- 
ing maids of the farm-house. 

Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent 
and mournful procession, 

Came from the neighboring hamlets 
and farms the Acadian women, 

Driving in ponderous wains their 
household goods to the sea- 
shore, 

Pausing and looking back to gaze 
once more on their dwellings. 

Ere they were shut from sight by the 
winding road and the woodland. 

Close at their sides their children ran, 
and urged on the oxen. 

While in their little hands they clasped 
some fragments of playthings. 

Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth they 
hurried and there on the sea- 
beach 

Piled in confusion lay the household 
goods of the peasants. 

All day long between the shore and 
the ships did the boats ply ; 

All day long the wains came laboring 
down from the village. 

Late in the afternoon, when the sun 
was near to his setting, 

Echoing far o'er the fields came the 
roll of drums from the church- 
yard. 

Thither the women and children 
thronged. On a sudden the 
church-doors 

Opened, and forth came the guard, 
and marching in gloomy proces- 
sion 

Followed the long-imprisoned, but 
patient, Acadian farmers. 



Even as pilgrims, who journey afar 
from their homes and their 
country, 

Sing as they go, and in singing forget 
they are weary and way-worn, 

So with songs on their lips the Aca- 
dian peasants descended 

Down from the church to the shore, 
amid their wives and their daugh- 
ters. 

Foremost the young men came ; and, 
raising together their voices. 

Sang they with tremulous lips a chant 
of the Catholic Missions : — 

" Sacred heart of the Saviour ! O in- 
exhaustible fountain ! 

Fill our hearts this day with strength 
and submission and patience ! " 

Then the old men, as they marched, . 
and the women that stood by 
the way-side 

Joined in the sacred psalm, and the 
birds in the sunshine above them 

Mingled their notes therewith, like 
voices of spirits departed. 

Halfway down to the shore Evange- 
line waited in silence, 

Not overcome with grief, but strong 
in the hour of affliction, — 

Calmly and sadly waiied. until the 
procession approached her. 

And she beheld the face of Gabriel 
pale with emotion. 

Tears then filled her eyes, and, eagerly 
running to meet him, 

Clasped she his hands, and laid her 
head on his shoulder, and whis- 
pered, — 

"Gabriel! be of good cheer! for if 
we love one another. 

Nothing, in truth, can harm us, what- 
ever mischances may happen ! " 

Smiling she spake these words ; then 
suddenly paused, for her father 

Saw she slowly advancing. Alas ! 
how changed was his aspect ! 

Gone was the glow from his cheek, 
and the fire from his eye, and 
his footstep 



178 



EVANGELINE. 



Heavier seemed with the weight of 

the weary heart in his bosom. 
Bat with a smile and a sigh, she 

clasped his neck and embraced 

him, 
Speal<ing words of endearment where 

words of comfort availed not. 
Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth moved 

on that mournful procession. 

There disorder prevailed, and the 
tumult and stir of embarking. ' 

Busily pHed the freighted boats ; and 
in the confusion 

Wives were torn from their husbands, 
and mothers, too late, saw their 
children 

Left on the land, extending their 
arms, with wildest entreaties. 

So unto separate ships were Basil and 
Gabriel carried. 

While in despair on the shore Evange- 
line stood with her father. 

Half the task was not done when the 
sun went down, and the twilight 

Deepened and darkened around ; and 
in haste the refluent ocean 

Fled away from the shore, and left 
the line of the sand-beach 

Covered with waifs of the tide, with 
kelp and the slippery sea-weed. 

Farther back in the midst of the 
household goods and the wagons, 

Like to a gipsy camp, or a leaguer 
after a battle, 

All escape, cut off by the sea, and 
the sentinels near them, 

Lay encamped for the night the house- 
less Acadian farmers. 

Back to its nethermost caves retreated 
the bellowing ocean. 

Dragging adown the beach the rat- 
tling pebbles, and leaving 

Inland and far up the shore the 
stranded boats of the sailors. 

Then, as the night descended, the 
herds returned from their pas- 
tures ; 

Sweet was the moist still air with the 
odor of milk from their udders ; 



Lowing they waited, and long, at the 
well-known bars of the farm- 
yard, — 

Waited and looked in vain for the 
voice and the hand of the milk- 
maid. 

Silence reigned in the streets ; from 
the church no Angelus sounded, 

Rose no smoke from the roofs, and 
gleamed no lights from the win- 
dows. 

But on the shores meanwhile the 
evening fires had been kindled. 

Built of the drift-wood thrown on the 
sands from wreclis in the tem- 
pest. 

Round them shapes of gloom and 
sorrowful faces were gathered. 

Voices of women were heard, and of 
men, and the crying of children. 

Onward from fire to fire, as from 
hearth to hearth in his parish. 

Wandered the faithful priest, consol- 
ing and blessing and cheering. 

Like unto shipwrecked Paul on Me- 
lita's desolate sea-shore. 

Thus he approached the place where 
Evangeline sat with her father, 

And in the flickering light beheld 
the face of the old man, 

Haggard and hollow and wan, and 
without either thought or emo- 
tion, 

E'en as the face of a clock from which 
the hands have been taken. 

Vainly Evangeline strove with words 
and caresses to cheer him, 

Vainly offered him food; yet he 
moved not, he looked not, he 
spake not. 

But, with a vacant stare, ever gazed 
at the flickering fire-light. 

'''■ Benediciter'' murmured the priest, 
in tones of compassion. 

More he fain would have said, but 
his heart was full, and his accents 

Faltered and paused on his lips, as 
the feet of a child on a thresh- 
old. 



EVANGELINE. 



179 



Hushed by the scene he beholds, 
and the awful presence of sor- 
row. 

Silently, therefore, he laid his hand 
on the head of the maiden, 

Raising his eyes, full of tears, to the 
silent stars that above them 

Moved on their way, unperturbed by 
the wrongs and sorrows of mor- 
tals. 

Then sat he down at her side, and 
they wept together in silence. 

Suddenly rose from the south a 
light, as in autumn the blood-red 

Moon climbs the crystal walls of 
heaven, and o'er the horizon 

Titan-like stretches its hundred hands 
upon mountain and meadow, 

Seizing the rocks and the rivers, and 
piling huge shadows together. 

Broader and ever broader it gleamed 
on the roofs of the village. 

Gleamed on the sky and the sea, and 
the ships that lay in the road- 
stead. 

Columns of shining smoke uprose, 
and flashes of flame were 

Thrust through their folds and with- 
drawn, like the quivering hands 
of a martyr. 

Then as the wind seized the gleeds 
and the burning thatch, and, up- 
lifting, 

Whirled them aloft through the air, 
at once from a hundred house- 
tops 

Started the sheeted smoke with 
flashes of flame mtermingled. 

These things beheld in dismay the 
crowd on the shore and on ship- 
I board. 

1 Speechless at first they stood, then 
cried aloud in their anguish, 
*We shall behold no more our homes 

in the village of Grand-Pre ! " 
Loud on a sudden the cocks began 
to crow in the farm-yards, 



Thinking the day had dawned ; and 
anon the lowing of cattle 

Came on the evening breeze, by the 
barking of dogs interrupted. 

Then rose a sound of dread, such as 
startles the sleeping encamp- 
ments 

Far in the western prairies or forests 
that skirt the Nebraska, 

When the wild horses affrighted 
sweep by with the speed of the 
• whirlwind. 

Or the loud bellowing herds of buffa- 
loes rush to the river. 

Such was the sound that arose on the 
night, as the herds and the horses 

Broke through their folds and fences, 
and madly rushed o'er the mead- 
ows. 

Overwhelmed with the sight, yet 

speechless, the priest and the 

maiden 
Gazed on the scene of terror that red- 
dened and widened before them ; 
And as they turned at length to 

speak to their silent companion, 
Lo ! from his seat he had fallen, and 

stretched abroad on the sea- 
shore 
Motionless lay his form, from which 

the soul had departed. 
Slowly the priest uplifted the lifeless 

head, and the maiden 
Knelt at her father's side, and wailed 

aloud in her terror. 
Then in a swoon she sank, and lay 

with her head on his bosom. 
Through the long night she lay in 

deep, oblivious slumber ; 
And when she woke from the trance, 

she beheld a multitude near her. 
Faces of friends she beheld, that were 

mournfully gazing upon her. 
Pallid, with tearful eyes, and looks of 

saddest compassion. 
Still the blaze of the burning village 

illumined the landscape. 
Reddened the sky overhead, and 

gleamed on the faces around her, 



i8o 



EVANGELINE. 



And like the day of doom it seemed 
to her wavering senses. 

Then a familiar voice she heard, as it 
said to the people, — 

" Let us bury him here by the sea. 
When a happier season 

Brings us again to our homes from 
the unknown land of our exile, 

Then shall his sacred dust be piously 
laid in the church-yard." 

Such were the words of the priest. 
And there in haste by the sea- 
side, 

Having the glare of the burning vil- 
lage for funeral torches. 

But without bell or book, they buried 
the farmer of Grand-Pr^. 

And as the voice of the priest repeated 
the service of sorrow, 

Lo ! with a mournful sound, like the 
voice of a vast congregation, 

Solemnly answered the sea, and min- 
gled its roar with the dirges. 

'T was the returning tide, that afar 
from the waste of the ocean, 

With the first dawn of the day, came 
heaving and hurrying land- 
ward. 

Then recommenced once more the 
stir and noise of embarking ; 

And with the ebb of that tide the 
ships sailed out of the harbor. 

Leaving behind them the dead on the 
shore, and the village in ruins. 



Part the Second. 



Many a weary year had passed since 
the burning of Grand-Pr^, 

When on the falhng tide the freighted 
vessels departed. 

Bearing a nation, with all its house- 
hold gods, into exile, 

Exile without an end, and without an 
example in story. 

Far asunder, on separate coasts, the 
Acadians landed ; 



Scattered were they, like flakes of 
snow, when the wind from the 
northeast 

Strikes aslant through the fogs that 
darken the Banks of Newfound- 
land. 

Friendless, homeless, hopeless, they 
wandered from city to city. 

From the cold lakes of the North to 
sultry Southern savannas, — 

From the bleak shores of the sea to 
the lands where the Father of 
Waters 

Seizes the hills in his hands, and drags 
them down to the ocean. 

Deep in their sands to bury the scat- 
tered bones of the mammoth. 

Friends they sought and homes ; and 
many, despairing, heart-broken. 

Asked of the earth but a grave, and 
no longer a friend nor a fireside. 

Written their history stands on tablets 
of stone in the church-yards. 

Long among them was seen a maiden 
who waited and wandered, 

Lowly and meek in spirit, and patiently 
suffering all things. 

Fair was she and young ; but, alas ! 
before her extended. 

Dreary and vast and silent, the desert 
of life, with its pathway 

Marked by the graves of those who 
had sorrowed and suffered before 
her, 

Passions long extinguished, and hopes 
long dead and abandoned. 

As the emigrant's way o'er the West- 
ern desert is marked by 

Camp-fires long consumed, and bones 
that bleach in the sunshine. 

Something there was in her life incom- 
plete, imperfect, unfinished ; 

As if a morning of June, with all its 
music and sunshine, 

Suddenly paused in the sky, and, 
fading, slowly descended 

Into the east again, from whence it 
late had arisen. 

Sometimes she lingered in towns, till, 
urged by the fever within her, 



EVANGELINE. 



i8i 



Urged by a restless longing, the hun- 
ger and thirst of the spirit, 

She would commence again her end- 
less search and endeavor ; 

Sometimes in church-yards strayed, 
and gazed on the crosses and 
tombstones, 

Sat by some nameless grave, and 
thought that perhaps in its bosom 

He was already at rest, and she longed 
to slumber beside him. 

Sometimes a rumor, a hearsay, an 
inarticulate whisper, 

Came with its airy hand to point and 
beckon her forward. 

Sometimes she spake with those who 
had seen her beloved and known 
him, 

But it was long ago, in some far-off 
place or forgotten. 

" Gabriel Lajeunesse ! " said they ; 
'' O, yes ! we have seen him. 

He was with Basil the blacksmith, and 
both have gone to the prairies ; 

Coiireurs-des-Bois are they, and famous 
hunters and trappers." 

" Gabriel Lajeunesse ! " said others ; 
" O, yes ! we have seen him. 

He is a Voyage^ir in the lowlands of 
Louisiana." 

Then would they say, — " Dear child ! 
w^hy dream and wait for him 
longer ? 

Are there not other youths as fair as 
Gabriel ? others 

Who have hearts as tender and true, 
and spirits as loyal ? 

Here is Baptiste Leblanc, the notary's 
son, who has loved thee 

Many a tedious year ; come, give him 
thy hand and be happy ! 

Thou art too fair to be left to braid 
St. Catherine's tresses." 

Then would Evangeline answer, se- 
renely but sadly, — "I cannot ! 

Whither my heart has gone, there 
follows my hand, and not else- 
where. 

For when the heart goes before, like a 
lamp, and illumines the pathway, 



Many things are made clear, that else 
lie hidden in darkness." 

And thereupon the priest, her friend 
and father-confessor. 

Said, with a smile, — '' O daughter ! 
thy God thus speaketh within 
thee ! 

Talk not of wasted affection, affection 
never was wasted ; 

If it enrich not the heart of another, 
its waters, returning 

Ba<:k to their springs, like the rain, 
shall fill them full of refresh- 
ment ; 

That which the fountain sends forth 
returns again to the fountain. 

Patience; accomplish thy labor; ac- 
complish thy work of affection ! 

Sorrow and silence are strong, and 
patient endurance is godlike. 

Therefore accomplish thy labor of 
love, till the heart is made god- 
like. 

Purified, strengthened, perfected, 
and rendered more worthy of 
heaven ! " 

Cheered by the good man's words, 
Evangeline labored and waited. 

Still in her heart she heard the funeral 
dirge of the ocean. 

But with its sound there was mingled 
a voice that whispered, " Despair 
not ! " 

Thus did that poor soul wander in 
want and cheerless discomfort. 

Bleeding, barefooted, over the shards 
and thorns of existence. 

Let me essay, O Muse ! to follow the 
wanderer's footsteps ; — 

Not through each devious path, each 
changeful year of existence ; 

But as a traveller follows a streamlet's 
course through the valley : 

Far from its margin at times, and see- 
ing the gleam of its water 

Here and there, in some open space, 
and at intervals only ; 

Then dravv^ing nearer its banks, 
through sylvan glooms that con- 
ceal it, 



I82 



EVANGELINE. 



Though he behold it not, he can hear 

its continuous murmur; 
Happy, at length, if he find the spot 

where it reaches an outlet. 



It was the month of May. Far down 

the Beautiful River, 
Past the Ohio shore and past the 

mouth of the Wabash, 
Into the golden stream of the broad 

and swift Mississippi, 
Floated a cumbrous boat, that was 

rowed by Acadian boatmen. 
It was a band of exiles : a raft, as it 

were, from the shipwrecked 
Nation, scattered along the coast, 

now floating together. 
Bound by the bonds of a common 

belief and a common misfortune ; 
Men and women and children, who, 

guided by hope or by hearsay. 
Sought for their kith and their kin 

among the few-acred farmers 
On the Acadian coast, and the 

prairies of fair Opelousas. 
With them Evangeline went, and her 

guide, the Father Felician. 
Onward o'er sunken sands, through 
^ a wilderness sombre with forests. 

Day after day they glided adown the 

turbulent river ; 
Night after night, by their blazing 

fires, encamped on its borders. 
Now through rushing chutes, among 

green islands, where plumelike 
Cotton-trees nodded their shadowy 

crests, they swept with the 

current. 
Then emerged into broad lagoons, 

where silvery sand-bars 
Lay in the stream, and along the 

wimpHng waves of their margin, 
Shining with snow-white plumes, 

large flocks of pelicans waded. 
Level the landscape grew, and along 

the shores of the river. 
Shaded by China-trees, in the midst 

of luxuriant gardens, 



Stood the houses of planters, with 

negro-cabins and dove-cots. 
They were approaching the region 

where reigns perpetual summer, 

Where through the Golden Coast, 

L_ and groves of orange and citron, 

Sweeps with majestic curve the river 

away to the eastward. 
They, too, swerved from their course ; 

and, entering the Bayou of 

Plaquemine, 
Soon were lost in a maze of slufrgish 

and devious waters. 
Which, like a network of steel, ex- 
tended in every direction. 
Over their heads the towering and 

tenebrous boughs of the cypress 
Met in a dusky arch, and trailing 

mosses in mid-air, 
Waved like banners that hang on the 

walls of ancient cathedrals. 
Deathlike the gilence seemed, and 
( unbroken, save by the herons 
iHome to their roosts in the cedar- 
i trees returning at sunset. 
Or by the owl, as he greeted the 

moon with demoniac laughter. 
Lovely the moonlight was as it glanced 

and gleamed on the water. 
Gleamed on the columns of cypress 

and cedar sustaining the arches, 
Down through whose broken vaults 

it fell as through chinks in a 

ruin. 
Dreamlike, and indistinct, and strange 

were all things around them ; 
And o'er their spirits there came a 

feeling of wonder and sadness, — 
Strange forebodings of ill, unseen and 

that cannot be compassed. 
As, at the tramp of a horse's hoof on 

the turf of the prairies. 
Far in advance are closed the leaves 

of the shrinking mimosa, 
So, at the hoof-beats of fate, with sad 

forebodings of evil. 
Shrinks and closes the heart, ere the 

stroke of doom has attained it. 
But Evangeline's heart was sustained 

by a vision, that faintly 



EVANGELINE. 



^83 



Floated before her eyes, and beck- 
oned her on through the moon- 
hght. 

It was the thought of her brain that 
assumed the shape of a phantom. 

Through those shadowy aisles had 
Gabriel wandered before her, 

And every stroke of the oar now 
brought him nearer and nearer. 

Then in his place, at the prow of the 

boat, rose one of the oarsmen. 
And, as a signal sound, if others like 

them peradventure 
Sailed on those gloomy and midnight 

streams, blew a blast on his bugle. 
Wild through the dark colonnades 

and corridors leafy the blast rang, 
Breaking the seal of silence, and 

giving tongues to the forest. 
Soundless above them the banners of 

moss just stirred to tlie music. 
Multitudinous echoes awoke and died 

in the distance, 
Over the watery floor, and beneath 

the reverberant branches ; 
But not a voice replied ; no answer 

came from the darkness ; 
And when the echoes had ceased, like 

a sense of pain was the silence. 
Then Evangeline slept ; but the boat- 
men rowed through the midnight, 
Silent at times, then singing familiar 

Canadian boat-songs, 
Such as they sang of old on their own 

Acadian rivers. 
And through the night were heard 

the mysterious sounds of the 

desert, 
Far off, indistinct, as of wave or wind 

in the forest. 
Mixed with the whoop of the crane 

and the roar of the grim alligator. 



Thus ere another noon they emerged 
from those shades ; and before 
them 
Lay, in the golden sun, the lakes of 
the Atchafalaya. 



Water-lilies in myriads rocked on the 

slight undulations 
Made by the passing oars, and, re- 
splendent in beauty, the lotus. 
Lifted her golden crown above the 

heads of the boatmen. 
Faint was the air with the odorous 

breath of magnolia blossoms. 
And with the heat of noon ; and num- 
berless sylvan islands, 
Fragrant and thickly embowered with 

blossoming hedges of rosesv 
Near to whose shores they glided 

along, invited to slumber. 
Soon by the fairest of these their 

weary oars were suspended. 
Under the boughs of Wachita willows, 

that grew by the margin, 
Safely their boat was moored ; and 

scattered about on the green- 
sward. 
Tired with their midnight toil, the 

weary travellers slumbered. 
Over them vast and high extended 

the cope of a cedar. 
Swinging from its great arms, the 

trumpet-flower and the grape-vine 
Hung their ladder of ropes aloft like 

the ladder of Jacob, 
On whose pendulous stairs the angels 

ascending, descending. 
Were the swift humming-birds, that 

flitted from blossom to blossom. 
Such was the vision Evangeline saw 

as she slumbered beneath it. 
Filled was her heart with love, and 

the dawn of an opening heaven 
Lighted her soul in sleep with the 

glory of regions celestial. 

Nearer and ever nearer, among the 
numberless islands. 

Darted a light swift boat, that sped 
away o'er the water. 

Urged on its course by the sinewy 
arms of hunters and trappers. 

Northward its prow was turned, to the 
land of the bison and beaver. 

At the helm sat a youth, with coun- 
tenance thoughtful and careworn. 



EVANGELINE. 



Dark and neglected locks over- 
shadowed his brow, and a sad- 
ness 

Somewhat beyond his years on his 
face was legibly written. 

Gabriel was it, who, weary with wait- 
ing, unhappy and restless, 

Sought in the Western wilds oblivion 
of self and of sorrow. 

Swiftly they glided along, close under 
the lea of the island, 

But by the opposite bank, and behind 
a screen of palmettos. 

So that they saw not the boat, where 
it lay concealed in the willows, 

And undisturbed by the dash of their 
oars, and unseen, were the 
sleepers ; 

Angel of God v^as there none to 
awaken the slumbering maiden. 

Swiftly they glided away, like the 
shade of a cloud on the prairie. 

After the sound of their oars on the 
tholes had died in the dis- 
tance, 

As from a magic trance the sleepers 
awoke, and the maiden 

Said with a sigh to the friendly priest, 
— " O Father Felician ! 

Something says in my heart that near 
me Gabriel wanders. 

Is it a foolish dream, an idle and 
vague superstition ? 

Or has an angel passed, and revealed 
the truth to my spirit ? " 

Then, with a blush, she added, — 
" Alas for my credulous fancy ! 

Unto ears like thine such words as 
these have no meaning." 

Bat made answer the reverend man, 
and he smiled as he answered : — 

"Daughter, thy words are not idle; 
nor are they to me without 
meaning. 

Feeling is deep and still ; and the 
word that floats on the surface 

Is as the tossing buoy, that betrays 
where the anchor is hidden. 

Therefore trust to thy heart, and to 
what the world calls illusions. 



Gabriel truly is near thee ; for not far 

away to the southward, 
On the banks of the Teche, are the 

towns of St. Maur and St. Martin. 
There the long-wandering bride shall 

be given again to her bridegroom. 
There the long-absent pastor regain 

his flock and his sheepfold. 
Beautiful is the land, with its prairies 

and forests of fruit-trees ; 
Under the feet a garden of flowers, 

and the bluest of heavens 
Bending above, and resting its dome 

on the walls of the forest. 
They who dwell there have named it 

the Eden of Louisiana." 

And with these words of cheer they 

arose and continued their jour- 
ney. 
Softly the evening came. The sun 

from the western horizon 
Like a magician extended his golden 

wand o'er the landscape ; 
Twinkling vapors arose ; and sky 

and water and forest 
Seemed all on fire at the touch, and 

melted and mingled together. 
Hanging between two skies, a cloud 

with edges of silver, 
Floated the boat, with its dripping 

oars, on the motionless water. 
Filled was Evangeline's heart with 

inexpressible sweetness. 
Touched by the magic spell, the sa- 
cred fountain of feeling 
Glowed with the light of love, as the 

skies and waters around her. 
Then from a neighboring thicket the 

mocking-bird, wildest of singers, 
Swinging aloft on a willow spray that 

hung o'er the water, 
Shook from his little throat such floods 

of delirious music. 
That the whole air and the woods and 

the waves seemed silent to listen. 
Plaintive at first were the tones and 

sad ; then soaring to madness 
Seemed they to follow or guide the 

revel of frenzied Bacchantes. 



EVANGELINE. 



185 



Single notes were then heard, in sor- 
rowful, low lamentation ; 
Till, having gathered them all, he 

flung tnem abroad in derision, 
As when, after a storm, a gust of wind 

through the tree-tops 
Shakes down the rattling rain in a 

crystal shower on the branches. 
With such a prelude as this, and hearts 

that throbbed with emotion, 
Slowly they entered the Teche, where 

it flows through the green Ope- 

lousas, 
And through the amber air, above 

the crest of the woodland, 
Saw the column of smoke that arose 

from a neighboring dwelling ; — 
Sounds of a horn they heard, and the 

distant lowing of cattle. 



Near to the bank of the river, e'er- 
shadowed by oaks, from whose 
branches 

Garlands of Spanish moss and of 
mystic mistletoe flaunted. 

Such as the Druids cut down with 
golden hatchets at Yule-tide, 

Stood, secluded and still, the house of 
the herdsman. A garden 
"Girded it round about with a belt of 
luxuriant blossoms. 

Filling the air with fragrance. The 
house itself was of timbers 

Hewn from the cypress-tree, and care- 
fully fitted together. 

Large and low was the roof; and on 
slender columns supported, 

Rose-wreathed, vine-encircled,abroad 
and spacious veranda, 

Haunt of the humming-bird and the 
bee, extended around it. 

At each end of the house, amid the 
flowers of the garden, 

Stationed the dove-cots were, as love's 
perpetual symbol. 

Scenes of endless wooing, and endless 
contentions of rivals. 



Silence reigned o'er the place. The 
line of shadow and sunshine 

Ran near the tops of the trees ; but 
the house itself was in shadow. 

And from its chimney-top, ascending 
and slowly expanding 

Into the evening air, a thin blue col- 
umn of smoke rose. 

In the rear of the house, from the gar- 
den gate, ran a pathway 

Through the great groves of oak to 
the skirts of the limitless prairie, 

Into whose sea of flowers the sun was 
slowly descending. 

Full in his track of light, like ships 
with shadowy canvas 

Hanging loose from their spars in a 
motionless calm in the tropics, 

Stood a cluster of trees, with tangled 
cordage of grape-vines. 

Just where the woodlands met the 
flowery surf of the prairie. 

Mounted upon his horse, with Spanish 
. saddle and stirrups. 

Sat a herdsman, arrayed in gaiters and 
doublet of deerskin. 

Broad and brown was the face that 
from under the Spanish som- 
brero 

Gazed on the peaceful scene, with the 
lordly look of its master. 

Round about him were numberless 
herds of kine, that were grazing 

Quietly in the meadows, and breathing 
the vapory freshness 

That uprose from the river, and spread 
itself over the landscape. 

Slowly lifting the horn that hung at 
his side, and expanding 

Fully his broad, deep chest, he blew a 
blast, that resounded 

Wildly and sweet and far, through the 
still damp air of the evening. 

Suddenly out of the grass the long 
white horns of the cattle 

Rose like flakes of foam on the adverse 
currents of ocean. 

Silent a moment they gazed, then bel- 
lowing rushed o'er the prairie, 



1 86 



EVANGELINE. 



And the whole mass became a cloud, 
a shade in the distance. 

Then, as the herdsman turned to the 
house, through the gate of the 
garden 

Saw he the forms of the priest and the 
maiden advancing to meet him. 

Suddenly down from his horse he 
sprang in amazement, and for- 
ward 

Rushed with extended arms and ex- 
clamations of wonder ; 

When they beheld his face, they rec- 
ognized Basil the blacksmith. 

Hearty his welcome was, as he led his 
guests to the garden. 

There in an arbor of roses with end- 
less question and answer 

Gave they vent to their hearts, and re- 
newed their friendly embraces, 

Laughing and weeping by turns, or 
sitting silent and thoughtful. 

Thoughtful, for Gabriel came not ; 
and now dark doubts and mis- 
givings 

Stole o'er the maiden's heart ; and 
Basil, somewhat embarrassed. 

Broke the silence and said, — " If you 
came by the Atchafalaya, 

How have you nowhere encountered 
my Gabriel's boat on the bay- 
ous ? " 

Over Evangeline's face at the words 
of Basil a shade passed. 

Tears came into her eyes, and she said, 
with a tremulous accent, — 

" Gone ? is Gabriel gone ? " and, con- 
cealing her face on his shoulder, 

All her o'erburdened heart gave way, 
and she wept and lamented. 

Then the good Basil said, — and his 
voice grew blithe as he said it, — 

" Be of good cheer, my child ; it is 
only to-day he departed. 

Foolish boy ! he has left me alone 
with my herds and my horses. 

Moody and restless grown, and tired 
and troubled, his spirit 

Could no longer endure the calm of 
this quiet existence. 



Thinking ever of thee, uncertain and 

sorrowful ever. 
Ever silent, or speaking only of thee 

and his troubles, 
He at length had become so tedious 

to men and to maidens. 
Tedious even to me, that at length I 

bethought me, and sent him 
Unto the town of Adayes to trade for 

mules with the Spaniards. 
Thence he will follow the Indian trails 

to the Ozark Mountains, 
Hunting for furs in the forests, on 

rivers trapping the beaver. 
Therefore be of good cheer ; we will 

follow the fugitive lover ; 
He is not far on his way, and the Fates 

and the streams are against 

him. 
Up and away to-morrow, and through 

the red dew of the morning 
We will follow him fast, and bring 

him back to his prison." 

Then glad voices were heard, and 
up from the banks of the river. 

Borne aloft on his comrades' arms, 
came Michael the fiddler. 

Long under Basil's roof had he lived 
like a god on Olympus, 

Having no other care than dispensing 
music to mortals. 

Far renowned was he for his silver 
locks and his fiddle. 

" Long live Michael," they cried, " our 
brave Acadian minstrel ! " 

As they bore him aloft in triumphal 
procession ; and straightway 

Father Felician advanced with Evan- 
geline, greeting the old man 

Kindly and oft, and recalling the past, 
while Basil, enraptured. 

Hailed with hilarious joy his old com- 
panions and gossips. 

Laughing loud and long, and embrac- 
ing mothers and daughters. 

Much they marvelled to see the wealth 
of the ci-devant blacksmith. 

All his domains and his herds, and his 
patriarchal demeanor ; 



EVANGELINE. 



187 



i 



Much they marvelled to hear his tales 
of the soil and the climate, 

And of the prairies, whose numberless 
herds were his who would take 
them ; 

Each one thought in his heart, that 
he, too, would go and do like- 
wise. 

Thus they ascended the steps, and, 
crossing the airy veranda, 

Entered the hall of the house, where 
already the supper of Basil 

Waited his late return ; and they 
rested and feasted together. 

Over the joyous feast the sudden 

darkness descended. 
All was silent without, and, illuming 

the landscape with silver. 
Fair rose the dewy moon and the 

myriad stars ; but within doors. 
Brighter than these, shone the faces 

of friends in the glimmering lamp- 
light. 
Then from his station aloft, at the 

head of the table, the herdsman 
Poured forth his heart and his wine 

together in endless profusion. 
Lighting his pipe, that was filled with 

sweet Natchitoches tobacco. 
Thus he spake to his guests, who lis- 
tened, and smiled as they lis- 
tened : — 
" Welcome once more, my friends, 

who so long have been friendless 

and homeless. 
Welcome once more to a home, that 

is better perchance than the old 

one ! 
Here no hungry winter congeals our 

blood like the rivers ; 
Here no stony ground provokes the 

wrath of the farmer. 
Smoothly the ploughshare runs 

through the soil as a keel 

through the water. 
All the year round the orange-groves 

are in blossom ; and grass grows 
More in a single night than a whole 

Canadian summer. 



Here, too, numberless herds run wild 
and unclaimed in the prairies ; 

Here, too, lands may be had for the 
asking, and forests of timber 

With a few blows of the axe are hewn 
and framed into houses. 

After your houses are built, and your 
fields are yellow with harvests, 

No King George of England shall 
drive you away from your home- 
steads. 

Burning your dwellings and barns, 
and stealing your farms and your 
cattle." 

Speaking these words, he blew a 
wrathful cloud from his nostrils, 

And his huge, brawny hand came 
thundering down on the table. 

So that the guests all started ; and 
Father Felician, astounded, 

Suddenly paused, with a pinch of 
snuff halfway to his nostrils. 

But the brave Basil resumed, and his 
words were milder and gayer : — 

"Only beware of the fever, my friends, 
beware of the fever ! 

For it is not like that of our cold Aca- 
dian climate, 

Cured by wearing a spider hung round 
one's neck in a nutshell !" 

Then tliere were voices heard at the 
door, and footsteps approach- 
ing 

Sounded upon the stairs and the floor 
of the breezy veranda. 

It was the neighboring Creoles and 
small Acadian planters. 

Who had been summoned all to the 
house of Basil the herdsman. 

Merry the meeting was of ancient 
comrades and neighbors : 

Friend clasped friend in his arms; 
and they who before were as 
strangers. 

Meeting in exile, became straightway 
as friends to each other. 

Drawn by the gentle bond of a com- 
mon country together. 

But in the neighboring hall a strain 
of music, proceeding 



EVANGELINE. 



From the accordant strings of 

Michaers melodious fiddle, 
Broke up all further speech. Away, 

like children delighted, 
All things forgotten beside, they gave 

themselves to the maddening 
Whirl of the dizzy dance, as it swept 

and swayed to the music. 
Dreamlike, with beaming eyes and the 

rush of fluttering garments. 

Meanwhile, apart, at the head of the 
hall, the priest and the herdsman 

Sat, conversing together of past and 
present and future ; 

While Evangeline stood like one en- 
tranced, for within her 

Olden memories rose, and loud in the 
midst of the music 

Heard she the sound of the sea, and 
an irrepressible sadness 

Came o'er her heart, and unseen she 
stole forth into the garden. 

Beautiful was the night. Behind the 
black wall of the forest. 

Tipping its summit with silver, arose 
the moon. On the river 

Fell here and there through the 
branches a tremulous gleam of 
the moonlight, 

Like the sweet thoughts of love on a 
darkened and devious spirit. 

Nearer and round about her, the 
manifold flowers of the garden 

Poured out their souls in odors, that 
were their prayers and confes- 
sions 

Unto the night, as it went its way, like 
a silent Carthusian. 

Fuller of fragrance than they, and as 
heavy with shadows and night- 
dews, 

Hung the heart of the maiden. The 
calm and the magical moonlight 

Seemed to inundate her soul with in- 
definable longings. 

As, through the garden gate, beneath 
the brown shade of the oak-trees. 

Passed she along the path to the edge 
of the measureless prairie. 



Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon 

it, and fire-flies 
Gleaming and floating away in min- 
gled and infinite numbers. 
Over her head the stars, the thoughts 

of God in the heavens. 
Shone on the eyes of man, who had 

ceased to marvel and worship. 
Save when a blazing comet was seen 

on the walls of that temple. 
As if a hand had appeared and written 

upon them, " LJpharsin." 
And the soul of the maiden, between 

the stars and the fire-flies, 
Wandered alone, and she cried, — "O 

Gabriel ! O my beloved ! 
Art thou so near unto me, and yet I 

cannot behold thee ? 
Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy 

voice does not reach me ? 
Ah ! how often thy feet have trod this 

path to the prairie ! 
Ah ! how often thine eyes have 

looked on the woodlands around 

me ! 
Ah ! how often beneath this oak, 

returning from labor. 
Thou hast lain down to rest, and to 

dream of me in thy slumbers. 
When shall these eyes behold, these 

arms be folded about thee ? " 
Loud and sudden and' near the note 

of a whippoorwill sounded 
Like a flute in the woods ; and 

anon, through the neighboring 

thickets, 
Farther and farther away it floated 

and dropped into silence. 
" Patience ! "' whispered the oaks 

from oracular caverns of dark- 
ness ; 
And, from the moonlit meadow, a 

sigh responded, '' To-morrow ! " 

Bright rose the sun next day ; and 
all the flowers of the garden 

Bathed his shining feet with their 
tears, and anointed his tresses 

With the delicious balm that they 
bore in their vases of crystal. 



EVANGELINE. 



189 



"Farewell!" said the priest, as he 

stood at the shadowy threshold ; 
" See that you bring us the Prodigal 

Son from his fasting and famine. 
And, too, the Foolish Virgin, who 

slept when the bridegroom was 

coming." 
" Farewell ! " answered the maiden, 

and, smiling, with Basil de- 
scended 
Down to the river's brink, where the 

boatmen already were waiting. 
Thus beginning their journey with 

morning, and sunshine, and 

gladness, 
Swiftly they followed the flight of him 

who was speeding before them. 
Blown by the blast of fate like a dead 

leaf over the desert. 
Not that day, nor the next, nor yet 

the day that succeeded, 
Found they trace of his course, in 

lake or forest or river. 
Nor, after many days, had they found 

him ; but vague and uncertain 
Rumors alone were their guides 

through a wild and desolate 

country ; 
Till, at the little inn of the Spanish 

town of Adayes, 
Weary and worn, they alighted, and 

learned from the garrulous land- 
lord. 
That on the day before, with horses 

and guides and companions, 
Gabriel left the village, and took the 

road of the prairies. 



Far in the West there lies a desert 

land, where the mountains 
Lift, through perpetual snows, their 

lofty and luminous summits. 
Down from their jagged, deep ravines, 

where the gorge, like a gateway. 
Opens a passage rude to the wheels 

of the emigrant's wagon, 
Westward the Oregon flows and the 

Walleway and Owyhee. 



Eastward, with devious course, 

among the Windriver Moun- 
tains, 
Through the Sweet-water Valley 

precipitate leaps the Nebraska ; 
And to the South, from Fontaine-qui- 

bout and the Spanish sierras, 
Fretted with sands and rocks, and 

swept by the wind of the desert. 
Numberless torrents, with ceaseless 

sound, descend to the ocean. 
Like the great chords of a harp, in 

loud and solemn vibrations. 
Spreading between these streams are 

the wondrous, beautiful prairies, 
Billowy bays of grass ever rolling in 

shadow and sunshine. 
Bright with luxuriant clusters of roses 

and purple amorphas. 
Over them wander the buffalo herds, 

and the elk and the roebuck ; 
Over them wander the wolves, and 

herds of riderless horses ; 
Fires that blast and blight, and winds 

that are weary with travel ; 
Over them wander the scattered tribes 

of Ishmael's children. 
Staining the desert with blood ; and 

above their terrible war-trails 
Circles and sails aloft, on pinions 

majestic, the vulture. 
Like the implacable scul of a chieftain 

slaughtered in battle. 
By invisible stairs ascending and 

scaling the heavens. 
Here and there rise smokes from the 

camps of these savage marauders ; 
Here and there rise groves from the 

margins of swift- running rivers ; 
And the grim, taciturn bear, the an- 
chorite monk of the desert. 
Climbs down their dark ravines to 

dig for roots by the brook-side ; 
And over all is the sky, the clear and 

crystalline heaven. 
Like the protecting hand of God 

inverted above them. 

Into this wonderful land, at the 
base of the Ozark Mountains, 



190 



EVANGELINE. 



Gabriel far had entered, with hunters 

and trappers behind him. 
Day after day, with their Indian 

guides, the maiden and Basil 
Followed his flying steps, and 

thought each day to overtake 

him. 
Sometimes they saw, or thought they 

saw, the smoke of his camp-fire 
Rise in the morning air from the 

distant plain, but at nightfall, 
When they had reached the place, they 

found only embers and ashes. 
And, though their hearts were sad at 

times and their bodies were 

weary, 
Hope still guided them on, as the 

magic Fata Morgana 
Showed them her lakes of light, that 

retreated and vanished before 

them. 

Once, as they sat by their evening 
fire, there silently entered 

Into the little camp an Indian woman, 
whose features 

Wore deep traces of sorrow, and 
patience as great as her sorrow. 

She was a Shawnee woman returning 
home to her people, 

From the far-off hunting-grounds of 
the cruel Camanches, 

Where her Canadian husband, a 
Coureur-des-Bois, had been mur- 
dered. 

Touched were their hearts at her 
story, and warmest and friend- 
liest welcome 

Gave they, with words of cheer, and 
she sat and feasted among them 

On the buffalo-meat and the venison 
cooked on the embers. 

But when their meal was done, and 
Basil and all his companions. 

Worn with the long day's march and 
the chase of the deer and the 
bison, 

Stretched themselves on the ground, 
and slept where the quivering fire- 
light 



Flashed on their swarthy cheeks, and 
their forms wrapped up in their 
blankets. 

Then at the door of Evangeline's tent 
she sat and repeated 

Slowly, with soft, low voice, and the 
charm of her Indian accent. 

All the tale of her love, with its pleas- 
ures, and pains, and reverses. 

Much Evangeline wept at the tale, and 
to know that another 

Hapless heart like her own had loved 
and had been disappointed. 

Moved to the depths of her soul by 
pity and woman's compassion. 

Yet in her sorrow pleased that one who 
had suffered was near her, 

She in turn related her love and all 
its disasters. 

Mute with wonder the Shawnee sat, 
and when she had ended 

Still was mute ; but at length, as if a 
mysterious horror 

Passed through her brain, she spake, 
and repeated the tale of the Mo- 
wis ; 

Mowis, the bridegroom of snow, who 
won and wedded a maiden. 

But, when the morning came, arose 
and passed from the wigwam, 

Fading and melting away and dissolv- 
ing into the sunshine. 

Till she beheld him no more, though 
she followed far into the forest. 

Then, in those sweet, low tones that 
seemed like a weird incanta- 
tion. 

Told she the tale of the fair Lilinau, 
who was wooed by a phantom. 

That, through the pines o'er her fa- 
ther's lodge, in the hush of the 
twilight. 

Breathed like the evening wind, and 
whispered love to the maiden. 

Till she followed his green and waving 
plume through the forest. 

And never more returned, nor was 
seen again by her people. 

Silent with wonder and strange sur- 
prise, Evangeline listened 



EVANGEIJNE. 



191 



To the soft flow of her magical words, 

till the region around her 
Seemed like enchanted ground, and 

herswarth y guest the enchantress. 
Slowly over the tops of the Ozark 

Mountains the moon rose. 
Lighting the little tent, and with a 

mysterious splendor 
Touching the sombre leaves, and 

embracing and filling the wood- 
land. 
With a delicious sound the brook 

rushed by, and the branches 
Swayed and sighed overhead in 

scarcely audible whispers. 
Filled -with the thoughts of love was 

Evangeline's heart, but a secret. 
Subtle sense crept in of pain and in- 
definite terror. 
As the cold, poisonous snake creeps 

into the nest of the swallow. 
It was no earthly fear, A breath from 

the region of spirits 
Seemed to float in the air of night ; 

and she felt for a moment 
That, like the Indian maid, she, too, 

was pursuing a phantom. 
And with this thought she slept, and 

the fear and the phantom had 

vanished. 

Early upon the morrow the march 
was resumed ; and the Shawnee 

Said, as they journeyed along, — " On 
the western slope of these moun- 
tains 

Dwells in his little village the Black 
Robe chief of the Mission. 

Much he teaches the people, and tells 
them of Mary and Jesus ; 

Loud laugh their hearts with joy, and 
weep with pain, as they hear 
him." 

Then, with a sudden and secret emo- 
tion, Evangeline answered, — 

" Let us go to the Mission, for there 
good tidings await us ! " 

Thither they turned their steeds ; and 
behind a spur of the moun- 
tains, 



Just as the sun went down, they heard 

a murmur of voices, 
And in a meadow green and broad, 

by the bank of a river, 
Saw the tents of the Christians, the 

tents of the Jesuit Mission. 
Under a towering oak, that stood in 

the midst of the village, 
Knelt the Black Robe chief with his 

children. A crucifix fastened 
High on the trunk of the tree, and 

overshadowed by grape-vines. 
Looked with its agonized lace on the 

multitude kneeling beneath it. 
This was their rural chapel. Aloft, 

through the intricate arches 
Of its aerial roof, arose the chant of 

their vespers. 
Mingling its notes with the soft susur- 

rus and sighs of the branches. 
Silent, with heads uncovered, the trav- 
ellers, nearer approaching. 
Knelt on the swarded floor, and joined 

in the evening devotions. 
But when the service was done, and 

the benediction had fallen 
Forth from the hands of the priest, 

like seed from the hands of the 

sower. 
Slowly the reverend man advanced to 

the strangers, and bade them 
Welcome ; and when they replied, he 

smiled with benignant expression. 
Hearing the homelike sounds of his 

mother-tongue in the forest. 
And with words of kindness conducted 

them into his wigwam. 
There upon mats and skins they re- 
posed, and on cakes of the maize- 
ear 
Feasted, and slaked their thirst from 

the water-gourd of the teacher. 
Soon was their story told ; and the 

priest with solemnity answered : — 
" Not six suns have risen and set since 

Gabriel, seated 
On this mat by my side, where now 

the maiden reposes. 
Told me this same sad tale ; then arose 

and continued his journey ! " 



192 



EVANGELINE. 



Soft was the voice of the priest, and 
he spake with an accent of l<ind- 
ness ; 

But on Evangeline's heart fell his 
words as in winter the snow-flakes 

Fall into some lone nest from which 
the birds have departed. 

" Far to the north he has gone,'' con- 
tinued the priest ; " but in au- 
tumn, 

When the chase is done, will return 
again to the Mission." 

Then Evangeline said, and her voice 
was meek and submissive, — 

" Let me remain with thee, for my 
soul is sad and afflicted." 

So seemed it wise and well unto all ; 
and betimes on the morrow, 

Mounting his Mexican steed, with his 
Indian guides and companions, 

Homeward Basil returned, and Evan- 
geline stayed at the Mission. 

Slowly, slowly, slowly the days suc- 
ceeded each other, — 
Days and weeks and months ; and 

the fields of maize that were 

springing 
Green from the ground when a 

stranger she came, now waving 

above her, 
Lifted their slender shafts, with leaves 

interlacing, and forming 
Cloisters for mendicant crows and 

granaries pillaged by squirrels. 
Then in the golden weather the maize 

was husked, and the maidens 
Blushed at each blood-red ear, for 

that betokened a lover. 
But at the crooked laughed, and 

called it a thief in the corn-field. 
Even the blood-red ear to Evangeline 

brought not her lover. 
" Patience ! " the priest would say ; 

" have faith, and thy prayer will 

be answered ! 
Look at this delicate plant that lifts 

its head from the meadow. 
See how its leaves all point to the 

north, as true as the magnet ; 



It is the compass-flower, that the 
finger of God has suspended 

Here on its fragile stalk, to direct the 
traveller's journey 

Over the sea-like, pathless, limitless 
waste of the desert. 

Such in the soul of man is faith. 
The blossoms of passion. 

Gay and luxuriant flowers, are brighter 
and fuller of fragrance. 

But they beguile us, and lead us 
astray, and their odor is deadly. 

Only this humble plant can guide us 
here, and hereafter 

Crown us with asphodel flowers, that 
are wet with the dews ojf ne- 
penthe." 

So came the autumn, and passed, 
and the winter, — yet Gabriel 
came not ; 

Blossomed the opening spring, and 
the notes of the robin and blue- 
bird 

Sounded sweet upon wold and in 
wood, yet Gabriel came not. 

But on the breath of the summer 
winds a rumor was wafted 

Sweeter than song of bird, or hue or 
odor of blossom. 

Far to the north and east, it said, in 
the Michigan forests, 

Gabriel had his lodge by the banks 
of the Saginaw River. 

And, with returning guides, that 
sought the lakes of St. Law- 
rence, 

Saying a sad farewell, Evangeline 
went from the Mission. 

When over weary ways, by long and 
perilous marches. 

She had attained at length the depths 
of the Michigan forests, 

Found she the hunter's lodge deserted 
and fallen to ruin ! 

Thus did the long sad years glide 
on, and in seasons and places 
Divers and distant far was seen the 
wandering maiden ; — 



EVANGELINE. 



193 



Now in the tents of grace of the 

meek Moravian Missions, 
Now in the noisy camps and the 

battle-iields ot the army, 
Now in secluded hamlets, in towns 

and populous cities. 
Like a phantom she came, and passed 

away unremembered. 
Fair was she and young, when in 

hope began the long journey ; 
Faded was she and old, when m dis- 
appointment it ended. 
Each succeeding year stole something 

away from her beauty, 
Leaving behind it, broader and deeper, 

the gloom and the shadow. 
Then there appeared and spread faint 

streaks of gray o'er her forehead. 
Dawn of another life, that broke o'er 

her earthly horizon, 
As in the eastern sky the first faint 

streaks of the morning. 



In that delightful land which is washed 

by the Delaware's waters, 
Guarding in sylvan shades the name 

of Penn the apostle, 
Stands on the banks of its beautiful 

stream the city he founded. 
There all the air is balm, and the 

peach is the emblem of beauty. 
And the streets still reecho the names 

of the trees of the forest, 
As if they fain would appease the 

Dryads whose haunts they mo- 
lested. 
There from the troubled sea had 

Evangeline landed, an exile. 
Finding among the children of Penn 

a home and a country. 
There old Rene Leblanc had died; 

and when he departed, 
Saw at his side only one of all his 

hundred descendants. 
Something at least there was in the 

friendly streets of the city, 
Something that spake to her heart, and 

made her no longer a stranger ; 



And her ear was pleased with the 

Thee and Thou of the Quakers, 
For it recalled the past, the old 

Acadian country, 
Where all men were equal, and all 

were brothers and sisters. 
So, when the fruitless search, the 

disappointed endeavor, 
Ended, to recommence no more upon 

earth, uncomplaining, 
Thither, as leaves to the light, were 

turned her thoughts and her 

footsteps. 
As from a mountain's top the rainy 

mists of the morning 
Roll away, and afar we behold the 

landscape below us. 
Sun-illumined, with shining rivers and 

cities and hamlets, 
So fell the mists from her mind, and 

she saw the world far below her. 
Dark no longer, but all illumined with 

love ; and the pathway 
Which she had climbed so far, lying 

smooth and fair in the distance. 
Gabriel was not forgotten. Within 

her heart was his image. 
Clothed in the beauty of love and 

youth, as last she beheld him, 
Only more beautiful made by his 

deathlike silence and absence. 
Into her thoughts of him time entered 

not, for it was not. 
Over him years had no power ; he 

was not changed, but trans- 
figured ; 
He had become to her heart as one 

who is dead, and not absent ; 
Patience and abnegation of self, and 

devotion to others. 
This was the lesson a life of trial and 

sorrow had taught her. 
So was her love diffused, but, like to 

some odorous spices. 
Suffered no waste nor loss, though 

filling the air with aroma. 
Other hope had she none, nor wish 

in life, but to follow 
Meekly, with reverent steps, the sa- 
cred feet of her Saviour. 



194 



EVANGELINE. 



Thus many years she lived as a Sister 
of Mercy, frequenting 

Lonely and wretched roofs in the 
crowded lanes of the city, 

Where distress and want concealed 
themselves from the sunlight, 

Where disease and sorrow in garrets 
languished neglected. 

Night after _ night, when the world 
was asleep, as the watchman re- 
peated 

Loud, through the gusty streets, that 
all was well in the city. 

High at some lonely window he saw 
the light of her taper. 

Day after day, in the gray of the dawn, 
as slow through the suburbs 

Plodded the German farmer, witli 
flowers and fruits for the market. 

Met he that meek, pale face, return- 
ing home from its watchings. 

Then it came to pass that a pesti- 
lence fell on the city. 

Presaged by wondrous signs, and 
mostly by flocks of wild pigeons. 

Darkening the sun in their flight, 
with naught in their craws but 
an acorn. 

And, as the tides of the sea arise in 
the month of September, 

Flooding some silver stream, till it 
spreads to a lake in the meadow, 

So death flooded life, and, overflow- 
ing its natural margin, 

Spread to a brackish lake, the silver 
stream of existence. 

Wealth had no power to bribe, nor 
beauty to charm, the oppressor ; 

But all perished alike beneath the 
scourge of his anger ; — 

Only, alas ! the poor, who had neither 
friends nor attendants. 

Crept away to die in the almshouse, 
home of the homeless. 

Then in the suburbs it stood, in the 
midst of meadows and wood- 
lands ; — 

Now the city surrounds it; but still, 
with its gateway and wicket 



Meek, in the midst of splendor, its 

humble walls seem to echo 
Softly the words of the Lord : — 

" The poor ye always have with 

you." 
Thither, by night and by day, came 

the Sister of Mercy. The dying 
Looked up into her face, and thought, 

indeed, to behold there 
Gleams of celestial light encircle her 

forehead with splendor. 
Such as the artist paints o'er the 

brows of saints and apostles. 
Or such as hangs by night o'er a city 

seen at a distance. 
Unto their eyes it seemed the lamps 

of the city celestial. 
Into whose shining gates ere long 

their spirits would enter. 

Thus, on a Sabbath morn, through 

the streets, deserted and silent. 
Wending her quiet way, she entered 

the door of the almshouse. 
Sweet on the summer air was the 

odor of flowers in the garden ; 
And she paused on her way to gather 

the fairest among them, 
That the dying once more might re- 
joice in their fragrance and 

beauty. 
Then, as she mounted the stairs to 

the corridors, cooled by the east 

wind. 
Distant and soft on her ear fell the 

chimes from the belfry of Christ 

Church, 
While, intermingled with these, across 

the meadows were wafted 
Sounds of psalms, that were sung by 

the Swedes in their Church at 

Wicaco. 
Soft as descending wings fell the 

calm of the hour on her spirit ; 
Something within her said, — "At 

length thy trials are ended " ; 
And, with light in her looks, she en- 
tered the chambers of sickness. 
Noiselessly moved about the sissidu- 

ous, careful attendants^; 



EVANGELINE. 



195 



Moistening the feverish lip, and the 

aching brow, and in silence 
Closing the sightless eyes of the dead, 

and concealing their faces, 
Where on their pallets they lay, like 

drifts of snow by the road-side. 
Many a languid head, upraised as 

Evangeline entered, 
Turned on its pillow of pain to gaze 

while she passed, for her pres- 
ence 
Fell on their hearts like a ray of the 

sun on the walls of a prison. 
And, as she looked around, she saw 

how Death, the consoler. 
Laying his hand upon many a heart, 

had healed it forever. 
Many familiar forms had disappeared 

in the night-time ; 
Vacant their places were, or filled 

already by strangers. 

Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or 
a feeling of wonder. 
Still she stood, with her colorless lips 

apart, while a shudder 
Ran through her frame, and, forgot- 
ten, the flowerets dropped from 
her fingers, 
And from her eyes and cheeks the 
light and bloom of the morn- 
ing. 
I Then there escaped from her lips a 

cry of such terrible anguish, 
I That the dying heard it, and started 

up from their pillows. 
I On the pallet before her was stretched 

the form of an old man. 
I Long, and thin, and gray were the 

locks that shaded his temples ; 
iBut, as he lay in the morning light, 

his face for a moment 
|Seemed to assume once more the 
forms of its earlier manhood ; 
3o are wont to be changed the faces 

of those who are dying. 
lot and red on his lips still burned 

the flush of the fever, 
\.s if life, like the Hebrew, with blood 
had besprinkled its portals. 



That the Angel of Death might see 
the sign, and pass over. 

Motionless, senseless, dying he lay, 
and his spirit exhausted 

Seemed to be sinking down through 
infinite depths in the darkness. 

Darkness of slumber and death, for- 
ever sinking and sinking. 

Then through those realms of shade, 
in multiplied reverberations. 

Heard he that cry of pain, and through 
the hush that succeeded 

Whispered a gentle voice, in accents 
tender and saint-hke, 

" Gabriel ! O my beloved ! " and died 
away into silence. 

Then he beheld, in a dream, once 
more the home of his child- 
hood ; 

Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan 
rivers among them. 

Village, and mountain, and wood- 
lands ; and, walking under their 
shadow. 

As in the days of her youth, Evange- 
line rose in his vision. 

Tears came into his eyes ; and as 
slowly he lifted his eyelids. 

Vanished the vision away, but Evan- 
geline knelt by his bedside. 

Vainly he strove to whisper her name, 
for the accents unuttered 

Died on his lips, and their motion 
revealed what his tongue would 
have spoken. 

Vainly he strove to rise ; and Evan- 
geline, kneeling beside him, 

Kissed his dying lips, and laid his 
head on her bosom. 

Sweet was the light of his eyes ; but 
it suddenly sank into darkness. 

As when a lamp is blown out by a 
gust of wind at a casement. 

All was ended now, the hope, and 
the fear, and the sorrow. 

All the aching of heart, the restless, 
unsatisfied longing. 

All the dull, deep pain, and constant 
anguish of patience ! 



196 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



And, as she pressed once more the 
lifeless head to her bosom, 

Meekly she bowed her own, and mur- 
mured, " Father, 1 thank thee ! " 



Still stands the forest primeval ; but 
far away from its shadow. 

Side by side, in their nameless graves, 
the lovers are sleeping. 

Under the humble walls of the little 
Catholic church-yard, 

In the heart of the city, they lie, un- 
known and unnoticed. 

Daily the tides of life go ebbing and 
riowing beside them. 

Thousands of throbbing hearts, where 
theirs are at rest and forever, 

Thousands of aching brains, where 
theirs no longer are busy. 

Thousands of toiling hands, where 
theirs have ceased from their 
labors, 



Thousands of weary feet, where theirs 
have completed their journey ! 

Still stands the forest primeval ; but 
under the shade of its branches 

Dwells another race, with other cus- 
toms and language. 

Only along the shore of the mournful 
and misty Atlantic 

Linger a few Acadian peasants, whose 
fathers from exile 

Wandered back to their native land 
to die in its bosom. 

In the fisherman's cot the wheel and 
the loom are still busy ; 

Maidens still wear their Norman caps 
and their kirtles of homespun. 

And by the evening fire repeat Evan- 
geline's story, 

While from its rocky caverns the 
deep-voiced neighboring ocean 

Speaks, and in accents disconsolate 
answers the wail of the forest. 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND, 1851. 



PROLOGUE. 

The Spire of Strasburg Cathe- 
dral. 

Night and storm. Lucifer, with the 
Powers of the Air, trying to tear 
down the Cross. 



Hasten ! hasten ! 

O ye spirits ! 

From its station drag the ponderous 

Cross of iron, that to mock us 

Is uplifted high in air ! 

voices. 
O, we cannot ! 
For around it 

All the Saints and Guardian Angels 
Throng in legions to protect it ; 
They defeat us everywhere ! 



the bells. 

Laudo Deum verum ! 
Plebem voco ! 
Congrego clerum ! 



Lower! lower! 

Hover downward ! 

Seize the loud, vociferous bells, and ) 

Clashing, clanging to the pavement , 

Hurl them from their windy tower I % 



voices. 

All thy thunders 

Here are harmless ! 

For these bells have been anointed, 

And baptized with holy water ! 

They defy our utmost power. 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



197 



THE BELLS. 

Defunctos ploro ! 
PeStem fugo ! 
Fesla decoro ! 



Shake the casements ! 
Break the painted 

Panes, that flame with gold and crim- 
son ; 
Scatter them hke leaves of Autumn, 
Swept away belore the blast ! 



O, we cannot ! 

The Archangel 

Michael flames from every window, 

With the sword of fire that drove us 

Headlong, out of heaven, aghast ! 

THE BELLS. 

Funera plango ! 
Fulgura frango ! 
Sabbata pango ! 



Aim your lightnings 

At the oaken, 

Massive, iron-studded portals ! 

Sack the house of God, and scatter 

Wide the ashes of the dead ! 

VOICES. 

O, we cannot ! 

The Apostles 

And the Martyrs, wrapped in mantles, 

Stand as warders at the entrance. 

Stand as sentinels o'erhead ! 

THE BELLS. 

Excito lentos ! 
Dissipo ventos ! 
Paco cruentos ! 

LUCIFER. 

Baffled ! baffled ! 

Inefficient, 

Craven spirits ! leave this labor 



Unto Time, the great Destroyer ! 
Come away, ere night is gone ! 

VOICES. 

Onward ! onward ! 

With the night-wind. 

Over field and farm and forest. 

Lonely homestead, darksome hamlet. 

Blighting all we breathe upon ! 

They sweep away. Organ and Gre- 
gorian Chant. 



Nocte surgentes 
Vigilemus omnes ! 



The Castle of Vautsberg on the 
Rhine. 

A cha7nber in a tower. Prince 
Henry, sitting alojie, ill and rest- 
less. Mid7iight. 

PRINCE HENRY. 

I CANNOT sleep ! my fevered brain 
Calls up the vanished Past again, 
And throws its misty splendors deep 
Into the pallid realms of sleep ! 
A breath from that far-distant shore 
Comes freshening ever more and more, 
And wafts o'er intervening seas 
Sweet odors from the Hesperides ! 
A wind, that through the corridor 
Just stirs the curtain, and no more, 
And, touching the aeolian strings. 
Faints with the burden that it brings ! 
Come back ! ye friendships long de- 
parted ! 
That like overflowing streamlets 

started, 
And now are dwindled, one by one, 
To stony channels in the sun ! 
Come back ! ye friends, whose lives 

are ended ! 
Come back, with all that light attended. 
Which seemed to darken and decay 
When ye arose and went away ! 



198 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



They come, the shapes of joy and woe, 

The airy crowds of long-ago, 

The dreams and fancies known of 

yore, 
That have been, and shall be no more. 
They change the cloisters of the night 
.Into a garden of delight ; 
They make the dark and dreary hours 
Open and blossom into flowers ! 
I would not sleep ! I love to be 
Again in their fair company ; 
But ere my lips can bid them stay. 
They pass and vanish quite away ! 
Alas ! our memories may retrace 
Each circumstance of time and place, 
Season and scene come back again. 
And outward things unchanged re- 
main ; 
The rest we cannot reinstate ; 
Ourselves we cannot re-create. 
Nor set our souls to the same key 
Of the remembered harmony ! 

Rest ! rest ! O, give me rest and 

peace ! 
The thought of life that ne'er shall 

cease 
Has something in it like despair, 
A weight I am too weak to bear ! 
Sweeter to this afflicted breast 
The thought of never-ending rest ! 
Sweeter the undisturbed and deep 
Tranquillity of endless sleep ! 

A flash of lightnings out of which 
Lucifer appears in the garb of a 
travelling Physician. 

LUCIFER. 

All hail. Prince Henry ! 

PRINCE HENRY, starting. 

Who is it speaks ? 
Who and what are you ? 



One who seeks 
A moment's audience with the Prince. 



PRINCE HENRY. 

When came you in ? 



A moment since. 
I found your study door unlocked. 
And thought you answered when I 
knocked. 

PRINCE HENRY. 

I did not hear you. 

LUCIFER. 

You heard the thunder ; 
It was loud enough to waken the dead. 
And it is not a matter of special 

wonder 
That, when God is walking overhead, 
You should not hear my feeble tread. 

PRINCE HENRY. 

What may your wish or purpose be ? 



Nothing or everything, as it pleases 
Your Highness. You behold in me 
Only a travelling Physician ; 
One of the few who have a mission 
To cure incurable diseases. 
Or those that are called so. 

PRINCE HENRY. 

Can you bring 
The dead to life ? 

LUCIFER. 

Yes ; very nearly. 
And, what is a wiser and better 

thing, 
Can keep the living from ever needing 
Such an unnatural, strange proceeding, 
By showing conclusively and clearly 
That death is a stupid blunder merely. 
And not a necessity of our lives. 
My being here is accidental ; 
The storm, that against your case- 
ment drives, 
In the Httle village below waylaid me. 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



And there I heard, with a secret 
delight, 

Of your maladies physical and mental, 

Which neither astonished nor dis- 
mayed me. 

And I hastened hither, though late 
in the night, 

To proffer my aid ! 

PRINCE HENRY, ironically. 

For this you came ! 
And how can I ever hope to requite 
This honor from one so erudite ? 

LUCIFER. 

The honor is mine, or will be when 
I have cured your disease. 

PRINCE HENRY. 

But not till then. 

LUCIFER. 

What is your illness ? 

PRINCE HENRY. 

It has no name. 
A smouldering, dull, perpetual flame, 
As in a kiln, burns in my veins. 
Sending up vapors to the head ; 
My heart has become a dull lagoon, 
Which a kind of leprosy drinks and 

drains ; 
I am accounted as one who is dead. 
And, indeed, I think that I shall be 

soon. 



And has Gordonius the Divine, 
In his famous Lily of Medicine, — 
I see the book hes open before 

you, — 
No remedy potent enough to restore 

you ? 

PRINCE HENRY. 

None whatever ! 



The dead are dead. 
And their oracles dumb, when ques- 
tioned 
Of the new diseases that human life 
Evolves in its progress, rank, and rife, 
Consult the dead upon things that 

were. 
But the living only on things that are. 
Have 3'Ou done this, by the appliance 
And aid of doctors ? 

PRINCE HENRY. 

Ay, whole schools 
Of doctors, with their learned rules ; 
But the case is quite beyond their 

science. 
Even the doctors of Salern 
Send me back word they can discern 
No cure for a malady like this. 
Save one which in its nature is 
Impossible, and cannot be ! 

LUCIFER. 

That sounds oracular ! 

PRINCE HENRY. 

Unendurable ! 

LUCIFER. 

What is their remedy 1 

PRINCE HENRY. 

You shall see ; 
Writ in this scroll is the mystery. 

LUCIFER, reading. 

" Not to be cured, yet not incurable ! 

The only remedy that remains 

Is the blood that flows from a maiden's 

veins. 
Who of her own free will shall die. 
And give her life as the price of 

yours ! " 
That is the strangest of all cures, 
And one, I think, you will never try ; 
The prescription you may well put by, 
As something impossible to find 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



Before the world itself shall end ! 
And yet who knows ? One cannot 

say- 
That into some maiden's brain that 

kind 
Of madness will not find its way. 
Meanwhile permit me to recommend, 
As the matter admits of no delay, 
My wonderful Catholicon, 
Of very subtile and magical powers. 

PRINCE HENRY. 

Purge with your nostrums and drugs 
infernal 

The spouts and gargoyles of these 
towers, 

Not me. My faith is utterly gone 

In every power but the Power Super- 
nal ! 

Pray tell me, of what school are you ? 



Both of the Old and of the New ! 
The school of Hermes Trismegistus, 
Who uttered his oracles sublime 
Before the Olympiads, in the dew 
Of the early dawn and dusk of Time, 
The reign of dateless old Heph^stus ! 
As northward, from its Nubian springs. 
The Nile, forever new and old, 
Among the living and the dead. 
Its mighty, mystic stream has rolled ; 
So, starting from its fountain-head 
Under the lotus-leaves of Isis, 
From the dead demigods of eld, 
Through long, unbroken lines of kings 
Its course the sacred art has held. 
Unchecked, unchanged by man's 

devices. 
This art the Arabian Geber taught, 
And in alembics, finely wrought. 
Distilling herbs and flowers, discov- 
ered 
The secret that so long had hovered 
Upon the misty verge of Truth, 
The Elixir of Perpetual Youth, 
Called Alcohol, in the Arab speech ! 
Like him, this wondrous lore I teach ! 



PRINCE HENRY. 

What ! an adept ? 

LUCIFER. 

Nor less, nor more ! 

PRINCE HENRY. 

I am a reader of your books, 

A lover of that mystic lore ! 

With such a piercing glance it looks 

Into great Nature's open eye. 

And sees within it trembling lie 

The portrait of the Deity ! 

And yet, alas ! with all my pains, 

The secret and the mystery 

Have baffled and eluded me. 

Unseen the grand result remains ! 

LUCIFER, sho'wi7ig a flask. 

Behold it here ! this little flask 
Contains the wonderful quintessence, 
The perfect flower and efflorescence, 
Of all the knowledge man can ask ! 
Hold it up thus against the light ! 

PRINCE HENRY. 

How limpid, pure, and crystalline, 
How quick, and tremulous, and bright 
The little wavelets dance and shine. 
As were it the Water of Life in 
sooth ! 



It is ! It assuages every pain. 
Cures all disease, and gives again 
To age the swift delights of youth. 
Inhale its fragrance. 

PRINCE HENRY. 

It is sweet. 
A thousand different odors meet 
And mingle in its rare perfume. 
Such as the winds of summer waft 
At open windows through a room ! 

LUCIFER. 

Will you not taste it ? 



I 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



Suffice ? 



PRINCE HENRY. 

Will one draught 

LUCIFER. * 

If not, you can drink more. 

PRINCE HENRY. 

Into this crystal goblet pour 
So much as safely I may drink. 

LUCIFER, ponrifig. 

Let not the quantity alarm you ; 
You may drink all ; it will not harm 
you. 

PRINCE HENRY. 

I am as one who on the brink 
Of a dark river stands and sees 
The waters flow, the landscape dim 
Around him waver, wheel, and swim, 
And, ere he plunges, stops to think 
Into what whirlpools he may sink ; 
One moment pauses, and no more, 
Then madly plunges from the shore ! 
Headlong into the mysteries 
Of life and death I boldly leap, 
Nor fear the fateful current's sweep, 
Nor what in ambush lurks below ! 
For death is better than disease ! 

An Angel with an cBolzan harp hov- 
ers in the air. 

ANGEL. 

Woe ! woe ! eternal woe ! 

Not only the whispered prayer 

Of love. 

But the imprecations of hate, 

Reverberate 

Forever and ever through the air 

Above ! 

This fearful curse 

Shakes the great universe ! 

LUCIFER, disappearing. 

Drink ! drink ! 

And thy soul shall sink 

Down into the dark abyss, 



Into the infinite abyss, 

From which no plummet nor rope 

Ever drew up the silver sand of hope. 

PRINCE HENRY, drinking. 

It is like a draught of fire ! 

Through every vein 

I feel again 

The fever of youth, the soft desire ; 

A rapture that is almost pain 

Throbs in my heart and fills my brain. 

joy ! O joy ! I feel 
The band of steel 

That so long and heavily has pressed 

Upon my breast 

Uplifted, and the malediction 

Of my afliiction 

Is taken from me, and i^y weary breast 

At length finds rest. 

THE ANGEL. 

It is but the rest of the fire, from 

which the air has been taken ! 
It is but the rest of the sand, when 

the hour-glass is not shaken ! 
It is but the rest of the tide between 

the ebb and the flow ! 
It is but the rest of the wind between 

the flaws that blow ! 
With fiendish laughter, 
Hereafter, 

This false physician 
Will mock thee in thy perdition. 

PRINCE HENRY. 

Speak ! speak ! 

Who says that I am ill ? 

1 am not ill ! I am not weak ! 

The trance, the swoon, the dream, is 

o'er ! 
I feel the chill of death no more ! 
At length, 

I stand renewed in all my strength ! 
Beneath me I can feel 
The great earth stagger and reel. 
As if the feet of a descending God 
Upon its surface trod. 
And like a pebble it rolled beneath 

his heel ! 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



This, O brave physician ! this 
Is thy great Pahngenesis ! 
Drinks again. 

THE ANGEL. 

Touch the goblet no more ! 

It will make thy heart sore 

To its very core ! 

Its perfume is the breath 

Of the Angel of Death, 

And the light that within it lies 

Is the flash of his evil eyes. 

Beware ! O, beware ! 

For sickness, sorrow, and care 

All are there ! 

PRINCE ¥i¥.^KY, sinking back. 

thou voice within my breast ! 
Why entreat me. why upbraid me. 
When the steadfast tongues of truth 
And the flattering hopes of youth 
Have all deceived me and betrayed 

me ? 
Give me, give me rest, O, rest ! 
Golden visions wave and hover. 
Golden vapors, w^aters streaming, 
Landscapes moving, changing, gleam- 
ing. 

1 am like a happy lover 

Who illumines life with dreaming ! 
Brave physician ! Rare physician ! 
Well hast thou fulfilled thy mission. 
His head falls on his book. 

THE ANGEL, receding. 

Alas ! alas ! 

Like a vapor the golden vision 

Shall fade and pass. 

And thou wilt find in thy heart again 

Only the blight of pain. 

And bitter, bitter, bitter contrition ! 

Court-yard of the Castle. 
Hubert standing by the gateway . 



How sad the grand old castle looks ! 
Overhead, the unmolested rooks 



Upon the turret's windy top 
Sit, talking of the farmer's crop ; 
Here in the court-yard springs the 

grass, 
So few*are now the feet that pass ; 
The stately peacocks, bolder grown. 
Come hopping down the steps of 

stone, 
As if the castle were their ov/n ; 
And I, the poor old seneschal. 
Haunt, like a ghost, the banquet-hall. 
Alas ! the merry guests no more 
Crowd through the hospitable door; 
No eyes with youth and passion shine, 
No cheeks grow redder than the wine ; 
No song, no laugh, no jovial din 
Of drinking wassail to the pin ; 
But all is silent, sad, and drear, 
And now the only sounds I hear 
Are the hoarse rooks upon the walls, 
And horses stamping in their stalls ! 

A horn sou7tds. 
What ho ! that merry, sudden blast 
Reminds me of the days long past ! 
And, as of old resounding, grate 
The heavy hinges of the gate. 
And, clattering loud, with iron clank, 
Down goes the sounding bridge of 

plank. 
As if it were in haste to greet 
The pressure of a traveller's feet ! 
Enter Walter the Mimtesinger. 



How now, my friend ! This looks 

quite lonely ! 
No banner flying from the walls, 
No pages and no seneschals. 
No warders, and one porter only ! 
Is it you, Hubert ? 

HUBERT. 

Ah! Master Walter ! 

WALTER. 

Alas ! how forms and faces alter ! 
I did not know you. You look older ! 
Your hair has grown much grayer 

and thinner, 
And you stoop a little in the shoulder ! 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



203 



Alack ! I am a poor old sinner, 
And, like these towers, begin to 

moulder ; 
And you have been absent many a 

year! 

WALTER. 

How is the Prince ? 

HUBERT. 

He is not here ; 
He has been ill : and now has fled. 

WALTER. 

Speak it out frankly : say he's dead ! 
Is it not so ? 

HUBERT. 

No ; if you please ; 
A strange, mysterious disease 
Fell on him with a sudden blight. 
Whole hours together he would stand 
Upon the terrace, in a dream, 
Resting his head upon his hand. 
Best pleased when he was most alone. 
Like St. John Nepomuck in stone, 
Looking down into a stream. 
In the Round Tower, night after 

night. 
He sat, and bleared his eyes with 

books. 
Until one morning we found him 

there 
Stretched on the floor, as if in a 

swoon 
He had fallen from his chair. 
We hardly recognized his sweet looks ! 



Poor Prince ! 



I think he might have mended ; 
And he did mend ; but very soon 
The Priests came flocking in, like 

rooks. 
With all their crosiers and their 

crooks. 
And so at last the matter ended. 



WALTER. 

How did it end ? 



Why, in Saint Rochus 
They made him stand, and w^ait his 

doom ; 
And, as if he were condemned to the 

tomb. 
Began to mutter their hocus-pocus. 
First, the Mass for the Dead they 

chaunted, 
Then three times laid upon his head 
A shovelful of church-yard clay, 
Saying to him, as he stood undaunted, 
" This is a sign that thou art dead. 
So in thy heart be penitent ! " 
And forth from the chapel door he 

went 
Into disgrace and banishment. 
Clothed in a cloak of hodden gray. 
And bearing a wallet, and a bell, 
Whose sound should be a perpetual 

knell 
To keep all travellers away.j 



O, horrible fate ! Outcast, rejected, 
As one with pestilence infected ! 



Then was the family tomb unsealed. 
And broken helmet, sword and shield, 
Buried together, in common wreck. 
As is the custom, when the last 
Of any princely house has passed. 
And thrice, as with a trumpet-blast, 
A herald shouted down the stair 
The words of warning and despair, — 
" O Hoheneck ! O Hoheneck ! " 



Still in my soul that cry goes on, — 
Forever gone ! forever gone ! 
Ah, what a cruel sense of loss, 
Like a black shadow, would fall across 
The hearts of all, if he should die ! 
His gracious presence upon earth 
Was as a fire upon a hearth ; 



204 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



As pleasant songs, at morning sung, 
The words that dropped from his 

sweet tongue 
Strengthened our hearts ; or, heard 

at night. 
Made all our slumbers soft and light. 
Where is he ? 



In the Odenwald. 
Some of his tenants, unappalled 
By fear of death, or priestly word, — 
A holy family, that make 
Each meal a Supper of the Lord, — 
Have him beneath their watch and 

ward, 
For love of him, and Jesus' sake ! 
Pray you come in. For why should I 
With out-door hospitality 
My prince's friend thus entertain ? 



I would a moment here remain. 
But you, good Hubert, go before, 
Fill me a goblet of May-drink, 
As aromatic as the May 
From which it steals the breath away. 
And which he loved so well of yore ; 
It is of him that I would think. 
You shall attend me, when I call, 
In the ancestral banquet-hall. 
Unseen companions, guests of air, 
You cannot wait on, will be there ; 
They taste not food, they drink not 

wine. 
But their soft eyes look into mine. 
And their lips speak to me, and all 
The vast and shadowy banquet-hall 
Is full of looks and words divine ! 

Leaning over the parapet. 

The day is done ; and slowly from the 

scene 
The stooping sun upgathers his spent 

shafts. 
And puts them back into his golden 

quiver ! 
Below me in the valley, deep and 

green 



As goblets are, from which in thirsty 

draughts 
We drink its wine, the swift and 

mantling river 
Flows on triumphant through these 

lovely regions. 
Etched with the shadows of its som- 
bre margent. 
And soft, reflected clouds of gold and 

argent ! 
Yes, there it flows, forever, broad and 

still, 
As when the vanguard of the Roman 

legions 
First saw it from the top of yonder 

hill! 
How beautiful it is! Fresh fields of 

wheat. 
Vineyard, and town, and tower with 

fluttering flag. 
The consecrated chapel on the crag. 
And the white hamlet gathered round 

its base. 
Like Mary sitting at her Saviour's 

feet. 
And looking up at his beloved face ! 
O friend ! O best of friends ! Thy 

absence more 
Than the impending night darkens 

the landscape o'er ! 



II. 

A Farm in the Odenwald. 

A garden. Morniiig. Prince Henry 
seated., with a book. Elsie, at a 
distance., gathering flower s . 

prince henry, reading. 

One morning, all alone. 
Out of his convent of gray stone, 
Into the forest older, darker, grayer, 
His lips moving as if in prayer. 
His head sunken upon his breast 
As in a dream of rest, 
Walked the Monk FeHx. All about 
The broad, sweet sunshine lay with- 
out, 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



205 



Filling the summer air ; 

And within the woodlands as he trod, 

The twilight was like the Truce of 
God 

With worldly woe and care ; 

Under him lay the golden moss ; 

And above him the boughs of hem- 
lock-trees 

Waved, and made the sign of the 
cross, 

And whispered their Benedicites ; 

And from the ground 

Rose an odor sweet and fragrant 

Of the wild-flowers and the vagrant 

Vines that wandered. 

Seeking the sunshine, round and 
round. 

These he heeded not, but pondered 

On the volume in his hand, 

A volume of Saint Augustine, 

Wherein he read of the unseen 

Splendors of God's great town 

In the unknown land. 

And, with his eyes cast down 

In humility, he said : 

" I believe, O God, 

What herein I have read. 

But alas ! I do not understand ! " 

And lo ! he heard 

The sudden singing of a bird, 

A snow-white bird, that from a cloud 

Dropped down. 

And among the branches brown 

Sat singing 

So sweet, and clear, and loud. 

It seemed a thousand harp-strings 

ringing. 
And the Monk Felix closed his book, 
And long, long, 
With rapturous look, 
He listened to the song. 
And hardly breathed or stirred. 
Until he saw, as in a vision, 
The land Elysian, 
And in the heavenly city heard 
Angelic feet 
Fall on the golden flagging of the 

street. 



And he would fain 
Have caught the wondrous bird, 
But strove in vain ; 
For it flew away, away, 
Far over hill and dell. 
And instead of its sweet singing 
He heard the convent bell 
Suddenly in the silence ringing 
For the service of noonday. 
And he retraced 

His pathway homeward sadly and in 
haste. 

In the convent there was a change ! 
He looked for each well-known face. 
But the faces were new and strange ; 
New figures sat in the oaken stalls. 
New voices chaunted in the choir ; 
Yet the place was the same place, 
The same dusky walls 
Of cold, gray stone. 
The same cloisters and belfry and 
spire. 

A stranger and alone 

Among that brotherhood 

The Monk Felix stood. 

" Forty years," said a Friar, 

" Have I been Prior 

Of this convent in the wood, 

But for that space 

Never have I beheld thy face ! " 

The heart of the Monk Felix fell : 
And he answered, with submissive 

tone, 
"This morning, after the hour of 

Prime 
I left my cell. 

And wandered forth alone. 
Listening all the time 
To the melodious singing 
Of a beautiful white bird, 
Until I heard 

The bells of the convent ringing 
Noon from their noisy towers. 
It was as if I dreamed ; 
For what to me had seemed 
Moments only, had been hours ! " 



206 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



" Years ! " said a voice close by. 

It was an aged monk who spoke, 

From a bench of oak 

Fastened against the wall ; — 

He was the oldest monk of all. 

For a whole century 

Had he been there, 

Serving God in prayer. 

The meekest and humblest of his 

creatures. 
He remembered well the features 
Of Felix, and he said, 
Speaking distinct and slow : 
" One hundred years ago. 
When I was a novice in this place, 
There was here a monk, full of God's 

grace, 
Who bore the name 
Of Felix, and this man must be the 

same." 

And straightway 

They brought forth to the light of day 

A volume old and brown, 

A huge tome, bound 

In brass and wild-boar's hide, 

Wherein were written down 

The names of all who had died 

In the convent, since it was edified. 

And there they found. 

Just as the old monk said, 

That on a certain day and date, 

One hundred years before, 

Had gone forth from the convent gate 

The Monk Felix, and never more 

Had entered that sacred door. 

He had been counted among the dead ! 

And they knew, at last, 

That, such had been the power 

Of that celestial and immortal song, 

A hundred years had passed. 

And had not seemed so long 

As a single hour ! 

YA.^w.co}nes in with flowers. 



Here are flowers for you, 
But they are not all for you ; 
Some of them are for the Virgin 
And for Saint Cecilia. 



PRINCE HENRY. 

As thou standest there, 
Thou seemest to me like the angel 
That brought the immortal roses 
To Saint Cecilia's bridal chamber. 

ELSIE. . 

But these will fade. 

PRINCE HENRY. 

Themselves will fade, 

But not their memory. 

And memory has the power 

To re-create them from the dust. 

They remind me, too. 

Of martyred Dorothea, 

Who from celestial gardens sent 

Flowers as her witnesses 

To him who scoffed and doubted. 

ELSIE. 

Do you know the story 

Of Christ and the Sultan's daughter ? 

That is the prettiest legend of them all. 

PRINCE HENRY. 

Then tell it to me. 

But first Come hither. 

Lay the flowers down beside me, 

And put both thy hands in mine. 

Now tell me the story. 



Early in the morning 
The Sultan's daughter 
Walked in her father's garden, 
Gathering the bright flowers, 
All full of dew. 

PRINCE HENRY. 

Just as thou hast been doing 
This morning, dearest Elsie. 



And as she gathered them. 
She wondered more and more 
Who was the Master of the Flowers, 
And made them grow 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



207 



Out of the cold, dark earth. 
" In my heart," she said, 
" I love him ; and for him 
Would leave my father^s palace, 
To labor in his garden." 

PRINCE HENRY. 

Dear, innocent child ! 

How sweetly thou recallest 

The long-forgotten legend, 

That in my early childhood 

My mother told me ! 

Upon my brain 

It reappears once more, 

As a birthmark on the forehead 

When a hand suddenly 

Is laid upon it, and removed ! 



And at midnight. 

As she lay upon her bed, 

She heard a voice 

Call to her from the garden. 

And, looking forth from her window. 

She saw a beautiful youth 

Standing among the flowers. 

It was the Lord Jesus ; 

And she went down to him. 

And opened the door for him ; 

And he said to her, " O maiden ! 

Thou hast thought of me with love. 

And for thy sake 

Out of my Father's kingdom 

Have I come hither : 

I am the Master of the Flowers. 

My garden is in Paradise, 

And if thou wilt go with me, 

Thy bridal garland 

Shall be of bright red flowers." 

And then he took from his finger 

A golden ring. 

And asked the Sultan's daughter 

If she would be his bride. 

And when she answered him with 

love. 
His wounds began to bleed. 
And she said to him, 
" O Love ! how red thy heart is, 
And thy hands are full of roses." 



" For thy sake," answered he, 
'" For thy sake is my heart so red, 
For thee I bring these roses. 
I gathered them at the cross 
Whereon I died for thee ! 
Come, for my Father calls. 
Thou art my elected bride ! " 
And the Sultan's daughter 
Followed him to his Father's garden. 

PRINCE HENRY. 

Wouldst thou have done so, Elsie ? 

ELSIE. 

Yes, very gladly. 

PRINCE HENRY. 

Then the Celestial Bridegroom 

Will come for thee also. 

Upon thy forehead he will place, 

Not his crown of thorns, 

But a crown of roses. 

In thy bridal chamber. 

Like Saint Cecilia, 

Thou shalt hear sweet music. 

And breathe the fragrance 

Of flowers immortal ! 

Go now and place these flowers 

Before her picture. 



A Room in the Farm-house. 

Twilight. \]'R.s\5'LAspz7tmng. Gott- 
lieb asleep in his chair. 

URSULA. 

Darker and darker! Hardly a 

glimmer 
Of light comes in at the window-pane ; 
Or is it my eyes are growing dimmer ? 
I cannot disentangle this skein. 
Nor wind it rightly upon the reel. 
Elsie ! 

GOTTLIEB, stai'ting. 

The stopping of thy wheel 
Has wakened me out of a pleasant 
dream. 



208 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



I thought I was sitting beside a 

stream, 
And heard the grinding of a mill, 
When suddenly the wheels stood still, 
And a voice cried *' Elsie " in my ear ! 
It startled me, it seemed so near. 



I was calling her ; I want a light. 
I cannot see to spin my flax. 
Bring the lamp, Elsie. Dost thou 
hear ? 

ELSIE, within. 

In a moment ! 

GOTTLIEB. 

Where are Bertha and Max ? 



They are sitting with Elsie at the 

door. 
She is telling them stories of the 

wood. 
And the Wolf, and Little Red Rid- 

inghood. 

GOTTLIEB. 

And where is the Prince ? 



In his room overhead ; 
I heard him walking across the floor. 
As he always does, with a heavy 
tread. 

Elsie comes in with a lamp. Max 
and Bertha follow her., and they 
all sing the Evening Song on the 
lighting of the lamps. 

evening song. 
O gladsome light 
Of the Father Immortal, 
And of the celestial 
Sacred and blessed 
Jesus, our Saviour ! 

Now to the sunset 

Again hast thou brought us ; 



And, seeing the evening 
Twilight, we bless thee, 
Praise thee, adore thee ! 

Father omnipotent ! 
Son, the Life-giver ! 
Spirit, the Comforter ! 
Worthy at all times 
Of worship and wonder ! 

prince henry, at the door. 
Amen ! 

URSULA. • 

Who was it said Amen ? 

ELSIE. 

It was the Prince: he stood at the 

door. 
And listened a moment, as we 

chaunted 
The evening song. He is gone again. 
I have often seen him there before. 

URSULA. 

Poor Prince ! 

GOTTLIEB. 

I thought the house was haunted ! 
Poor Prince, alas ! and yet as mild 
And patient as the gentlest child ! 

MAX. 

I love him because he is so good, 

And makes me such fine bows and ] 
arrows. 

To shoot at the robins and the spar- 
rows. 

And the red squirrels in the wood ! 

BERTHA. 

I love him, too ! 



Ah, yes ! we all 
Love him, from the bottom of our 

hearts ; 
He gave us the farm, the house, and 

the grange, 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



209 



He gave us the horses and the carts, 
And the great oxen in the stall, 
The vineyard, and the forest range ! 
We have nothing to give him but our 
love ! 



Did he give us the beautiful storic 

above 
On the chimney-top, with its large, 

round nest ? 

GOTTLIEB. 

No, not the stork ; by God in heaven. 
As a blessing, the dear, white stork 

was given ; 
But the Prince has given us all the 

rest. 
God bless him, and make him well 

again. 

ELSIE. 

Would I could do something for his 

sake, 
Something to cure his sorrow and 

pain! 

GOTTLIEB. 

That no one can ; neither thou nor I, 
Nor any one else. 

ELSIE. 

And must he die ? 



Yes ; if the dear God does not take 
Pity upon him, in his distress, 
And work a miracle ! 

GOTTLIEB. 

Or unless 
Some maiden, of her own accord. 
Offers her life for that of her lord, 
And is willing to die in his stead. 

ELSIE. 

I will. 

URSULA. 

Prithee, thou foolish child, be still ! 
Thou shouldst not say what thou dost 
not mean ! 



I mean it truly ! 

MAX. 

O father ! this morning, 
Down by the mill, in the ravine, 
Hans killed a wolf, the very same 
That in the night to the sheepfold 

came. 
And ate up my lamb, that was left 

outside. 

GOTTLIEB. 

I am glad he is dead. It will be a 

warning 
To the wolves in the forest, far and 

wide. 

MAX. 

And I am going to have his hide ! 



I wonder if this is the wolf that ate 
Little Red Ridinghood ! 

URSULA. 

O, no! 

That wolf was killed a long while 

ago. 
Come, children, it is growing late. 



Ah, how I wish I were a man, 

As stout as Hans is, and as strong ! 

I would do nothing else, the whole 

day long, 
But just kill wolves. 

GOTTLIEB. 

Then go to bed, 
And grow as fast as a little boy can. 
Bertha is half asleep already. 
See how she nods her heavy head. 
And her sleepy feet are so unsteady 
She will hardly be able to, creep up- 
stairs. 



Good night, my children, 
the light. 



Here's 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



And do not forget to say your prayers 
Before you sleep. 

GOTTLIEB. 

Good night ! 

MAX a;^«3f BERTHA. 

Good night ! 

They go out with elsie. 

URSULA, spinning. 

She is a strange and wayward child, 
That Elsie of ours. She looks so 

old. 
And thoughts and fancies weird and 

wild 
Seem of late to have taken hold 
Of her heart, that was once so docile 

and mild ! 

GOTTLIEB. 

She is like all girls. 

URSULA. 

Ah no, forsooth ! 
Unlike all I have ever seen ; 
For she has visions and strange 

dreams. 
And in all her words and ways, she 

seems 
Much older than she is in truth. 
Who would think her but fourteen ? 
And there has been of late such a 

change ! 
My heart is heavy with fear and 

doubt 
That she may not live till the year is 

out. 
She is so strange, — so strange, — so 

strange ! 

GOTTLIEB. 

I am not troubled with any such 

fear; 
She will live ^nd thrive for many a 

year. 



Elsie's Chamber. 
Night. Elsie praying. 



My Redeemer and my Lord, 
I beseech thee, I entreat thee, 
Guide me in each act and word, 
That hereafter I may meet thee. 
Watching, waiting, hoping, yearning. 
With my lamp well trimmed and 
burning ! 

Interceding 
With these bleeding 
Wounds upon thy hands and side, 
For all who have lived and erred 
Thou hast suffered, thou hast died. 
Scourged, and mocked, and crucified. 
And in the grave hast thou been 
buried ! 

If my feeble prayer can reach thee, 

O my Saviour, I beseech thee. 

Even as thou hast died for me, 

More sincerely 

Let me follow where thou leadest, 

Let me, bleeding as thou bleedest, 

Die, if dying I may give 

Life to one who asks to live, 

And more nearly. 

Dying thus, resemble thee ! 

The Chamber of Gottlieb and 
Ursula. 

Midnight. Elsie standing by their 
bedside^ weeping. 

GOTTLIEB. 

The wind is roaring ; the rushing rain 
Is loud upon roof and window-pane. 
As if the wild Huntsman of Roden- 

stein, 
Boding evil to me and mine. 
Were abroad to-night with his ghostly 

train ! 
In the brief lulls of the tempest wild, 
The dogs howl in the yard ; and 

hark ! 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



Some one is sobbing in the dark, 


She was more beautiful than before. 


Here in the cliamber ! 


Like violets faded were her eyes ; 




By this we knew that she was dead. 


ELSIE. 


Through the open window looked the 


It is L 


skies 




Into the chamber where she lay. 


URSULA. 


And the wind was like the sound of 


1 Elsie ! what ails thee, my poor child ? 


wings, 




As if angels came to bear her away. 


ELSIE. 


Ah ! when I saw and felt these things. 


1 I am disturbed and much distressed, 


I found it difficult to stay ; 


In thinking our dear Prince must die ; 


I longed to die, as she had died, 


I cannot close mine eyes, nor rest. 


And go forth with her, side by side. 




The Saints are dead, the Martyrs 


GOTTLIEB. 


dead. 


' What wouldst thou ? In the Power 


And Mary, and our Lord ; and I 


Divine 


Would follow in humility 


i His healing lies, not in our own ; 


The way by them illumined ! 


It is in the hand of God alone. 


URSULA. 


ELSIE. 


My child ! my child ! thou must not 


! Nay, he has put it into mine, 


die! 


And into my heart ! 


ELSIE. 


GOTTLIEB. 


Why should I live ? Do I not know 
The life of woman is full of woe .'' 


Thy words are wild ! 


Toiling on and on and on. 




With breaking heart, and tearful eyes. 


URSULA. 


And silent lips, and in the soul 


What dost thou mean ? my child ! 


The secret longings that arise. 


my child ! 


Which this world never satisfies ! 


Some more, some less, but of the 


ELSIE. 


whole 


That for our dear Prince Henry's sake 


Not one quite happy, no, not one ! 


I will myself the oiTering make, 




And give my life to purchase his. 


URSULA. 




It is the malediction of Eve ! 


URSULA. 




Am I still dreaming, or awake ? 


ELSIE. 


Thou speakest carelessly of death, 


In place of it, let me receive 


And yet thou knowest not what it is. 


The benediction of Mary, then. 


ELSIE. 


GOTTLIEB. 


'T is the cessation of our breath ; 


Ah, woe is me ! Ah, woe is me ! 


i Silent and motionless we lie ; 


Most wretched am I among men ! 


And no one knoweth more than this. 




I saw our little Gertrude die ; 


URSULA. 


: She left oif breathing, and no more 


Alas ! that I should live to see 


I smoothed the pillow beneath her 


Thy death, beloved, and to stand 


head. 


Above thy grave ! Ah, woe the day ! 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



Thou wilt not see it. I shall lie 

Beneath the floweis of another land, 

For at Salerno, far away 

Over the mountains, over the sea, 

It is appointed me to die ! 

And it will seem no more to thee 

Than if at the village on market-day 

I should a little longer stay 

Than I am used. 



Even as thou sayest ! 
And how my heart beats, when thou 

stayest. 
I cannot rest until my sight 
Is satisfied with seeing thee. 
What, then, if thou wert dead ? 

GOTTLIEB. 

Ah me! 
Of our old eyes thou art the light ! 
The joy of our old hearts art thou ! 
And wilt thou die ? 

URSULA. 

Not now ! not now ! 



Christ died for me, and shall not I 
Be willing for my Prince to die ? 
You both are silent ; you cannot speak. 
This said I, at our Saviour's feast. 
After confession, to the priest. 
And even he made no reply. 
Does he not warn us all to seek 
The happier, better land on high, 
Where flowers immortal never wither, 
And could he forbid me to go thither.^ 



In God's own time, my heart's delight ; 
When he shall call thee, not before! 



I heard him call. When Christ as- 
cended 
Triumphantly, from star to star, 



He left the gates of heaven ajar. 
I had a vision in the night, 
And saw him standing at the door 
Of his Father's mansion, vast and 

splendid, 
And beckoning to me from afar. 
I cannot stay 1 

GOTTLIEB. 

She speaks almost 
As if it were the Holy Ghost 
Spake through her lips, and in her 

stead ! 
What if this were of God? 



URSULA. 



Gainsay it dare we not. 



Ah, then 



Amen ! 
Elsie ! the words that thou hast said 
Are strange and new for us to hear, 
And fill our hearts with doubt and 

fear. 
Whether it be a dark temptation 
Of the Evil One, or God's inspiration. 
We in our blindness cannot say. 
We must think upon it, and pray ; 
For evil and good it both resembles. 
If it be of God, his will be done! 
May he guard us from the Evil One ! 
How hot thy hand is ! how it trembles ! 
Go to thy bed, and try to sleep. 



Kiss me. Good night ; and do not 
weep. 

ELSIE goes out. 

Ah, what an awful thing is this ! K 
I almost shuddered at her kiss, ^ 

As if a ghost had touched my cheek, 
I am so childish and so weak ! 
As soon as I see the earliest gray 
Of morning glimmer in the east, 
I will go over to the priest. 
And hear what the good man has to 
say ! 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



213 



A Village Church. 

A wofnan kneeling at the confessional. 

THE PARISH PRIEST, from within. 

Go, sin no more ! Thy penance o'er, 
A new and better life begin ! 
God maketh tliee forever free 
From the dominion of thy sin ! 
Go, sin no more ! He will restore 
The peace that filled thy heart before, 
And pardon thine iniquity ! 
The wojnan goes out. The P?'iest 

comes forth, atid walks slowly np 

and dow7i the church. 

blessed Lord ! how much I need 
Thy light to guide me on my way ! 
So many hands, that, without heed. 
Still touch thy wounds, and make 

them bleed ! 
So many feet, that, day by day. 
Still wander from thy fold astray ! 
Unless thou fill me with thy light, 

1 cannot lead thy flock aright ; 
Nor, without thy support, can bear 
The burden of so great a care, 
But am myself a castaway ! 

A pause. 
The day is drawing to its close ; 
And what good deeds, since first it 

rose. 
Have I presented, Lord, to thee, 
As oiferings of my ministry ? 
What wrong repressed, what right 

maintained, 
What stmggle passed, what victory 

gained, 
What good attempted and attained ? 
Feeble, at best, is my endeavor ! 
I see, but cannot reach, the height 
That lies forever in the light, 
And yet forever and forever. 
When seeming just within my grasp, 
I feel my feeble hands unclasp, 
And sink discouraged into night ! 
For thine own purpose, thou hast 

sent 
The strife and the discouragement ! 
A pause. 



Why stayest thou. Prince of Hohe- 

neck ? 
Why keep me pacing to and fro 
Amid these aisles of sacred gloom, 
Counting my footsteps as I go. 
And marking with each step a tomb ? 
Why should the world for thee make 

room, 
And wait thy leisure and thy beck? 
Thou comest in the hope to hear 
Some word of comfort and of cheer. 
What can I say? I cannot give 
The counsel to do this and live ; 
But rather, firmly to deny 
The tempter, though his power is 

strong. 
And, inaccessible to wrong. 
Still like a martyr live and die ! 
A pause. 

The evening air grows dusk and 

brown ; 
I must go forth into the town. 
To visit beds of pain and death. 
Of restless limbs, and quivering 

breath, 
And sorrowing hearts, and patient 

eyes 
That see, through tears, the sun go 

down. 
But never more shall see it rise. 
The poor in body and estate. 
The sick and the disconsolate. 
Must not on man's convenience wait. 
Goes out. 

E7iter Lucifer, as a Priest. 

LUCIFER, with a genuflexion, mocking. 

This is the Black Pater-noster. 

God was my foster. 

He fostered me 

Under the book of the Palm-tree. 

Saint Michael was my dame, 

He was born at Bethlehem. 

He was made of flesh and blood. 

God send me my right food, 

My right food, and shelter too. 

That I may to yon kirk go, 

To read upon yon sweet book 



214 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



Which the mighty God of heaven 
shook. 

Open, open, hell's gates ! 

Shut, shut, heaven's gates ! 

All the devils in the air 

The stronger be, that hear the Black 
Prayer. 
Looking round the church. 

What a darksome and dismal place ! 

I wonder that any man has the face 

To call such a hole the House of the 
Lord, 

And the Gate of Heaven, — yet such 
is the word. 

Ceiling, and walls, and windows old, 

Covered with cobwebs, blackened 
with mould ; 

Dust on the pulpit, dust on the stairs. 

Dust on the benches, and stalls, and 
chairs ! 

The pulpit, from which such pon- 
derous sermons 

Have fallen down on the brains of 
the Germans, 

With about as much real edification 

As if a great Bible, bound in lead. 

Had fallen, and struck them on the 
head ; 

And I ought to remember that sen- 
sation ! 

Here stands the holy-water stoup ! 

Holy-water it may be to many. 

But to me, the veriest Liquor Ge- 
hennae ! 

It smells like a filthy fast-day soup ! 

Near it stands the box for the poor ; 

With its iron padlock, safe and sure. 

I and the priest of the parish know 

Whither all these charities go ; 

Therefore, to keep up the institution, 

I will add my little contribution ! 
He puts in money. 

Underneath this mouldering tomb, 

With statue of stone, and scutcheon 
of brass. 

Slumbers a great lord of the village. 

All his life was riot and pillage, 

But at length, to escape the threat- 
ened doom 



Of the everlasting, penal fire. 

He died in the dress of a mendicant 

friar. 
And bartered his wealth for a daily 

mass. 
But all that afterwards came to pass. 
And whether he finds it dull or pleas- 
ant, 
Is kept a secret for the present, 
At his own particular desire. 

And here, in a corner of the wall, 
Shadowy, silent, apart from all, 
With its awful portal open wide. 
And its latticed windows on either 

side. 
And its step well worn by the bended 

knees 
Of one or two pious centuries. 
Stands the village confessional ! 
Within it, as an honored guest, 
I will sit me down awhile and rest ! 
Seats himself in the confessional. 
Here sits the priest ; and faint and low, 
Like the sighing of an evening breeze. 
Comes through these painted lattices 
The ceaseless sound of human woe ; 
Here, while her bosom aches and 

throbs 
With deep and agonizing sobs. 
That half are passion, half contrition, 
The luckless daughter of perdition 
Slowly confesses her secret shame ! 
The time, the place, the lover's name ! 
Here the grim murderer, with a groan. 
From his bruised conscience rolls the 

stone. 
Thinking that thus he can atone 
For ravages of sword and flame ! 
Indeed, I marvel, and marvel greatly. 
How a priest can sit here so sedately, 
Reading, the whole year out and in, 
Naught but the catalogue of sin. 
And still keep any faith whatever 
In human virtue ! Never ! never ! 

I cannot repeat a thousandth part 
Of the horrors and crimes and sins 
and woes 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



215 



That arise, when with palpitating 

throes 
The grave-yard in the human heart 
Gives up its dead, at the voice of the 

priest, 
As it he were an archangel, at least. 
It makes a peculiar atmosphere, 
This odor of earthly passions and 

crimes, 
Such as 1 like to breathe, at times, 
And such as often brings me here 
In the hottest and most pestilential 

season. 
To-day, I come for another reason ; 
To foster and ripen an evil thought 
In a heart that is almost to madness 

wrought. 
And to make a murderer out of a 

prince, 
A sleight of hand I learned long since ! 
He comes. In the twilight he will not 

see 
The difference between his priest and 

me ! 
In the same net was the mother caught ! 

PRINCE HENRY, entering atid kneeling 
at the co7ifessional. 

Remorseful, penitent, and lowly, 
I come to crave, O Father holy, 
Thy benediction on my head. 



The benediction shall be said 
After confession, not before ! 
'T is a God-speed to the parting guest, 
Who stands already at the door. 
Sandalled with holiness, and dressed 
In garments pure from earthly stain. 
Meanwhile, hast thou searched well 

thy breast ? 
Does the same madness fill thy brain ? 
Or have thy passion and unrest 
Vanished forever from thy mind ? 

PRINCE HENRY. 

By the same madness still made blind, 
By the same passion still possessed, 
I come again to the house of prayer, 



A man afflicted and distressed ! 
As in a cloudy atmosphere. 
Through unseen sluices of the air, 
A sudden and impetuous wind 
Strikes the great forest white with fear, 
And every branch, and bough, and 

spray 
Points all its quivering leaves one way. 
And meadows of grass, and fields of 

grain. 
And the clouds above, and the slant- 
ing ram. 
And smoke from chimneys of the town. 
Yield themselves to it, and bow down, 
So does this dreadful purpose press 
Onward, with irresistible stress. 
And all my thoughts and faculties. 
Struck level by the strength of this, 
From their true inclination turn. 
And all stream forward to Salern ! 



Alas ! we are but eddies of dust, 
Uplifted by the blast, and whirled 
Along the highway of the world 
A moment only, then to fall 
Back to a common level all. 
At the subsiding of the gust ! 

PRINCE HENRY. 

O holy Father ! pardon in me 
The oscillation of a mind 
Unsteadfast, and that cannot find 
Its centre of rest and harmony ! 
For evermore before mine eyes 
This ghastly phantom flits and flies, 
And as a madman through a crowd. 
With frantic gestures and wild cries, 
It hurries onward, and aloud 
Repeats its awful prophecies ! 
Weakness is wretchedness ! To be 

strong 
Is to be happy ! I am weak. 
And cannot find the good I seek. 
Because I feel and fear the wrong ! 



Be not alarmed ! The Church is kind, 
And in her mercy and her meekness 



2l6 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



She meets halfway her children's 

weakness, 
Writes their transgressions in the 

dust ! 
Though in the Decalogue we find 
The mandate written, " Thoushalt not 

kill ! " 
Yet there are cases when we must. 
In war, for instance, or from scathe 
To guard and keep the one true Faith ! 
We must look at the Decalogue in the 

light 
Of an ancient statute, that was meant 
For a mild and general application. 
To be understood with the reservation, 
That, in certain instances, the Right 
Must yield to the Expedient ! 
Thou art a Prince. If thou shouldst 

die. 
What hearts and hopes would pros- 
trate lie ! 
What noble deeds, what fair renown. 
Into the grave with thee go down ! 
What acts of valor and courtesy 
Remain undone, and die with thee ! 
Thou art the last of all thy race ! 
With thee a noble name expires, 
And vanishes from the earth's face 
The glorious memory of thy sires ! 
She is a peasant. In her veins 
Flows common and plebeian blood ; 
It is such as daily and hourly stains 
The dust and the turf of battle plains. 
By vassals shed, in a crimson flood. 
Without reserve, and without reward, 
At the slightest summons of their 

lord ! 
But thine is precious ; the fore-ap- 
pointed 
Blood of kings, of God's anointed ! 
Moreover, what has the world in store 
For one like her, but tears and toil ? 
Daughter of sorrow, serf of the soil, 
A peasant's child and a peasant's wife, 
And her soul within her sick and sore 
With the roughness and barrenness 

of hfe ! 
I marvel not at the heart's recoil 
From a fate like this in one so tender, 
Nor at its eagerness to surrender 



All the wretchedness, want, and woe 

That await it in this world below, 

For the unutterable splendor 

Of the world of rest beyond the skies. 

So the Church sanctions the sacrifice : 

Therefore inhale this healing balm. 

And breathe this fresh life into thine : 

Accept the comfort and the calm 

She offers, as a gift divine ; 

Let her fall down and anoint thy feet 

With the ointment costly and most 

sweet 
Of her young blood, and thou shalt 

live. 

PRINCE HENRY. 

And will the righteous Heaven for- 
give ? 
No action, whether foul or fair. 
Is ever done, but it leaves some- 
where 
A record, written by fingers ghostly. 
As a blessing or a curse, and mostly 
In the greater weakness or greater 

strength 
Of the acts which follow it, till at 

length 
The wrongs of ages are redressed, 
And the justice of God made mani- 
fest. 



In ancient records it is stated 

That, whenever an evil deed is done, 

Another devil is created 

To scourge and torment the offending 

one ! 
But evil is only good perverted. 
And Lucifer, the Bearer of Light, 
But an angel fallen and deserted. 
Thrust from his Father's house wit] 

a curse 
Into the black and endless night. 

PRINCE HENRY. 

If justice rules the universe. 
From the good actions of good men ] 
Angels of light should be begotten, ; 
And thus the balance restored agaidj 



i 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



217 



LUCIFER. 


A nameless terror in our breast. 


Yes ; if the world were not so rotten, 


Making us timid, and afraid 


And so given over to the Devil ! 


Of God, and his mysterious ways ! 


We have been sorrowful and sad ; 


PRINCE HENRY. 


Much have we suffered, much have 


But this deed, is it good or evil ? 


prayed 


Have I thine absolution free 


That he would lead us as is best, 


To do it, and without restriction ? 


And show us what his will required. 




It is decided ; and we give 


LUCIFER. 


Our child, O Prince, that you may 


Ay ; and from whatsoever sin 


live! 


Lieth around it and within, 




From all crimes in which it may 


URSULA. 


involve thee. 


It is of God. He has inspired 


I now release thee and absolve thee ! 


This purpose in her; and through 


PRINCE HENRY. 


pain. 
Out of a world of sin and woe. 


Give me thy holy benediction. 


He takes her to himself again. 




The mother's heart resists no longer; 


LUCIFER, stretching forth his hand 


With the Angel of the Lord in vain 


and muttering. 


It wrestled, for he was the stronger. 


Maledictione perpetua 




Maledicat vos 


GOTTLIEB. 


Pater eternus ! 


As Abraham offered long ago 


THE ANGEL, with the cEoHan harp. 


His son unto the Lord, and even 
The Everlasting Father in heaven 


Take heed ! take heed ! 


Gave his, as a lamb unto the slaughter, 


Noble art thou in thy birth. 


So do I offer up my daughter ! 


By the good and the great of earth 




Hast thou been taught ! 


Ursula hides her face. 


Be noble in every thought 




And in every deed ! 


ELSIE. 


Let not the 'illusion of thy senses 


My life is little, 


Betray thee to deadly offences. 


Only a cup of water, 


Be strong ! be good ! be pure ! 


But pure and hmpid. 


The right only shall endure, 


Take it, O my Prince ! 


All things else are but false pretences. 


Let it refresh you. 


I entreat thee, I implore. 


Let it restore you. 


Listen no more 


It is given willingly, 


To the suggestions of an evil spirit. 


It is given freely ; 


That even now is there. 


May God bless the gift ! 


Making the foul seem fair. 




And selfishness itself a virtue and a 


PRINCE HENRY. 


merit. 


And the giver ! 


A Room in the Farm-house. 


GOTTLIEB. 




Amen ! 


GOTTLIEB. 




It is decided ! For many days, 


PRINCE HENRY. 


And nights as many, we have had 


I accept it ! 



2l8 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



GOTTLIEB. 

Where are the children ? 

URSULA. 

They are already asleep. 

GOTTLIEB. 

What if they were dead ? 
In THE Garden. 

ELSIE. 

I HAVE one thing to ask of you. 

PRINCE HENRY. 

What is it ? 
It is already granted. 

ELSIE. 

Promise me, 

When we are gone from here, and on 
our way 

Are journeying to Salerno, you will 
not, 

By word or deed, endeavor to dis- 
suade me 

And turn me from my purpose ; but 
remember 

That as a pilgrim to the Holy City 

Walks unmolested, and with thoughts 
of pardon 

Occupied wholly, so would I ap- 
proach 

The gates of Heaven, in this great 
jubilee, 

With my petition, putting off from 
me 

All thoughts of earth, as shoes from 
off my feet. 

Promise me this. 

PRINCE HENRY. 

Thy words fall from thy lips 
Like roses from the lips of Angelo : 

and angels 
Might stoop to pick them up ! 



ELSIE. 

Will you not promise ? 

PRINCE HENRY. 

If ever we depart upon this journey. 
So long to one or both of us, I 



promise. 



ELSIE. 



Shall we not go, then ? Have you 

lifted me 
Into the air, only to hurl me back 
Wounded upon the ground ? and 

offered me 
The waters of eternal life, to bid 

me 
Drink the polluted puddles of this 

world ? 

PRINCE HENRY. 

O Elsie ! what a lesson thou dost teach 
me ! 

The life which is, and that which is to 
come. 

Suspended hang in such nice equi- 
poise 

A breath disturbs the balance ; and 
that scale 

In which we throw our hearts pre- 
ponderates. 

And the other, like an empty one, flies 

up? 
And is accounted vanity and air ! 
To me the thought of death is ter- 
rible. 
Having such hold on life. To thee 

it is not 
So much even as the lifting of a 

latch ; 
Only a step into the open air 
Out of a tent already luminous 
With light that shines through its 

transparent walls. 
O pure in heart ! from thy sweet dust 

shall grow 
Lilies, upon whose petals will be 

written 
" Ave Maria " in characters of gold ! 



Ml 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



219 



in. 

A Street in Strasburg. 

Night. Prince Henry wandering 

alone ^ wrapped in a cloak. 

PRINCE henry. 

Still is the night. The sound of 

feet 
Has died away from the empty street, 
And Hke an artisan, bending down 
His head on his anvil, the dark town 
Sleeps, with a slumber deep and sweet. 
Sleepless and restless, I alone, 
In the dusk and damp of these walls 

of stone, 
Wander and weep in my remorse ! 

crier of the dead, ringing a bell. 

Wake ! wake ! 
All ye that sleep ! 
Pray for the Dead ! 
Pray for the Dead ! 

prince henry. 

Hark! with what accents loud and 

hoarse 
This warder on the walls of death 
Sends forth the challenge of his 

breath ! 
I see the dead that sleep in the grave ! 
They rise up and their garments wave, 
Dimly and spectral, as they rise, 
With the light of another world in 

their eyes! 

crier of the dead. 

Wake ! wake ! 
All ye that sleep ! 
Pray for the Dead ! 
Pray for the Dead ! 

PRINCE HENRY. 

Why for the dead, who are at rest ? 
Pray for the living, in whose breast 
The struggle between right and wrong 
Is raging terrible and strong, 
As when good angels war with devils ! 



This is the Master of the Revels, 
Who, at Life's flowing feast, proposes 
The health of absent friends, and 

pledges, 
Not in bright goblets crowned with 

roses, 
And tinkling as we touch their edges, 
But with his dismal, tinkling bell. 
That mocks and mimics their funeral 

knell! 

CRIER OF THE DEAD. 

Wake ! wake ! 
All ye that sleep ! 
Pray for the Dead ! 
Pray for the Dead ! 

PRINCE HENRY. 

Wake not, beloved ! be thy sleep 
Silent as night is, and as deep ! 
There walks a sentinel at thy gate 
Whose heart is heavy and desolate, 
And the heavings of whose bosom 

number 
The respirations of thy slumber, 
As if some strange, mysterious fate 
Had linked two hearts in one, and 

mine 
Went madly wheeling about thine. 
Only with wider and wilder sweep ! 

CRIER OF THE DEAD, at a distance. 

Wake ! wake ! 
All ye that sleep ! 
Pray for the Dead ! 
Pray for the Dead ! 

PRINCE HENRY. 

Lo ! with what depth of blackness 

thrown 
Against the clouds, far up the skies 
The walls of the cathedral rise, 
Like a mysterious groVe of stone, 
With fitful lights and shadows blend- 
ing, 
As from behind, the moon, ascending, 
Lights its dim aisles and paths un- 
known ! 
The wind is rising; but the boughs 
Rise not and fall not with the wind 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



That through their foliage sobs and 

soughs ; 
Only the cloudy rack behind, 
Drifting onward, wild and ragged, 
Gives to each spire and buttress 

jagged 
A seeming motion undefined. 
Below on the square, an armed 

knight, 
Still as a statue and as white, 
Sits on his steed, and the moonbeams 

quiver 
Upon the points of his armor bright 
As on the ripples of a river. 
He lifts the visor from his cheek. 
And beckons, and makes as he would 

speak. 

WALTER the Mitmesinger . 

Friend ! can you tell me where alight 
Thuringia's horsemen for the night ? 
For I have lingered in the rear. 
And wander vainly up and down. 

PRINCE HENRY. 

I am a stranger in the town. 

As thou art ; but the voice I hear 

Is not a stranger to mine ear. 

Thou art Walter of the Vogelweid ! 



Thou hast guessed rightly; and thy 

name 
Is Henry of Hoheneck ! 

PRINCE HENRY. 

Ay, the same. 

WALTER, embracing him. 

Come closer, closer to my side ! 
What brings thee hither ? What 

potent charm 
Has drawn thee from thy German 

farm 
Into the old Alsatian city ? 

PRINCE HENRY. 

A tale of wonder and of pity ! 

A wretched man, almost by stealth 



Dragging my body to Salern, 

In the vain hope and search for 

health. 
And destined never to return. 
Already thou hast heard the rest. 
But what brings thee, thus armed and 

dight 
In the equipments of a knight ? 



Dost thou not see upon my breast 
The cross of the Crusaders shine 1 
My pathway leads to Palestine. 

PRINCE HENRY. 

Ah, would that way were also mine ! 
O noble poet ! thou whose heart 
Is like a nest of singing-birds 
Rocked on the topmost bough of 

life. 
Wilt thou, too, from our sky depart, 
And in the clangor of the strife 
Mingle the music of thy words ? 



My hopes are high, my heart is 

proud. 
And like a trumpet long and loud. 
Thither my thoughts all clang and 

ring ! 
My life is in my hand, and lo ! 
I grasp and bend it as a bow, 
And shoot forth from its trembling 

string 
An arrow, that shall be, perchance. 
Like the arrow of the Israelite king 
Shot from the window toward the 

east, 
That of the Lord's deliverance ! 

PRLNCE HENRY. ai 

My life, alas ! is what thou seest ! ™ 
O enviable fate ! to be 
Strong, beautiful, and armed like thee 
With lyre and sword, with song and 

steel ; 
A hand to smite, a heart to feel ! 
Thy heart, thy hand, thy lyre, thy 

sword, 



1 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



Thou givest all unto thy Lord ; 
While I, so mean and abject grown, 
Am thinking of myself alone. 



Be patient. Time will reinstate 
Thy health and fortunes. 

PRINCE HENRY. 

'T is too late ! 
I cannot strive against my fate ! 



Come with me ; for my steed is 

weary ; 
Our journey has been long and dreary, 
And, dreaming of his stall, he dints 
With his impatient hoofs the flints. 

PRINCE HENRY, aside. 

I am ashamed, in my disgrace, 
To look into that noble face ! 
To-morrow, Walter, let it be. 



To-morrow, at the dawn of day, 
I shall again be on my way. 
Come with me to the hostelry, 
For I have many things to say. 
Our journey into Italy 
Perchance together we may make ; 
Wilt thou not do it for my sake ? 

PRINCE HENRY. 

A sick man's pace would but impede 
Thine eager and impatient speed. 
Besides, my pathway leads me round 
To Hirschau, in the forest's bound. 
Where I assemble man and steed, 
And all things for my journey's need. 
They go out. 

LUCIFER, flying over the city. 

Sleep, sleep, O city ! till the light 
Wakes you to sin and crime again, 
Whilst on your dreams, like dismal 

rain, 
I scatter downward through the night 



My maledictions dark and deep. 
I have more martyrs in your walls 
Than God has ; and they cannot 

sleep ; 
They are my bondsmen and my 

thralls ; 
Their wretched lives are full of pain. 
Wild agonies of nerve and brain ; 
And every heart-beat, every breath. 
Is a convulsion worse than death ! 
Sleep, sleep, O city ! though within 
The circuit of your walls there lies 
No habitation free from sin. 
And all its nameless miseries ; 
The aching heart, the aching head, 
Grief for the living and the dead. 
And foul corruption of the time, 
Disease, distress, and v^ant, and woe, 
And crimes, and passions that may 

grow 
Until they ripen into crime ! 



Square in Front of the Cathe- 
dral. 

Easter Sunday. Friar Cuthbert 
preaching to the crowd from a 
pulpit in the ope7i air. Prince 
Henry and Elsie crossing the 
square. 

prince henry. 

This is the day, when from the dead 
Our Lord arose ; and everywhere, 
Out of their darkness and despair. 
Triumphant over fears and foes, 
The hearts of his disciples rose ; 
When to the women, standing near. 
The Angel in shining vesture said, 
" The Lord is risen ; he is not here ! " 
And, mindful that the day is come. 
On all the hearths in Christendom 
The fires are quenched, to be again 
Rekindled from the sun, that high 
Is dancing in the cloudless sky. 
The churches are all decked with 

flowers. 
The salutations among men 
Are but the Angel's words divine, 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



iHK^H 



<* Christ is arisen ! " and the bells 
Catch the glad murmur, as it swells, 
And chaunt together in their towers. 
All hearts are glad ; and free from 

care 
The faces of the people shine. 
See what a crowd is in the square, 
Gayly and gallantly arrayed ! 

ELSIE. 

Let us go back ; I am afraid ! 

PRINCE HENRY. 

Nay, let us mount the church-steps 

here, 
Under the doorway's sacred shadow ; 
We can see all things, and be freer 
From the crowd that madly heaves 

and presses ! 

ELSIE. 

What a gay pageant ! what bright 

dresses ! 
It looks like a flower-besprinkled 

meadow. 
What is that yonder on the square ? 

PRINCE HENRY. 

A pulpit in the open air. 

And a Friar, who is preaching to the 

crowd 
In a voice so deep and clear and loud. 
That, if we listen, and give heed. 
His lowest words will reach the ear. 

FRIAR CUTHBERT, gesticulating and 
cracking a postilion's whip. 

What ho ! good people ! do you not 

hear ? 
Dashing along at the top of his speed. 
Booted and spurred, on his jaded 

steed, 
A courier comes with words of cheer. 
Courier ! what is the news, I pray ? 
" Christ is arisen ! " Whence come 

you ? "From court." 
Then I do not believe it ; you say it 

in sport. 

Cracks his whip again. 



Ah, here comes another, riding this 
way ; 

We soon shall know what he has to 
say. 

Courier ! what are the tidings to-day ? 

"Christ is arisen!" Whence come 
you ? " From town." 

Then I do not believe it ; away with 
you, clown. 
Cracks his whip i7iore violently. 

And here comes a third, who is spur- 
ring amain. 

What news do you bring, with your 
loose-hanging rein, 

Your spurs wet with blood, and your 
bridle with foam ? 

" Christ is arisen ! " Whence come 
you ? " From Rome." 

Ah, now I believe. He is risen, in- 
deed. 

Ride on with the news, at the top of 
your speed ! 
Great applatise among the crowd. 

To come back to my text ! When 
the news was first spread 

That Christ was arisen indeed from 
the dead, 

Very great was the joy of the angels 
in heaven ; 

And as great the dispute as to who 
should carry 

The tidings thereof to the Virgin 
Mary, 

Pierced to the heart with sorrows 
seven. 

Old Father Adam was first to pro- 
pose. 

As being the author of all our woes ; 

But he was refused, for fear, said they. 

He would stop to eat apples on the 
way ! 

Abel came next, but petitioned in 
vain, 

Because he might meet with his 
brother Cain ! 

Noah, too, was refused, lest his weak- 
ness for wine 

Should delay him at every tavern- 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



223 



And John the Baptist could not get a 

vote, 
On account of his old-fashioned, 

camePs-hair coat ; 
And the Penitent Thief, who died on 

the cross. 
Was reminded that all his bones were 

broken ! 
Till at last, when each in turn had 

spoken. 
The company being still at a loss, 
The Angel, who rolled away the stone. 
Was sent to the sepulchre, all alone, 
And filled with glory that gloomy 

prison. 
And said to the Virgin, '' The Lord is 

arisen ! " 

The Cathedral bells ring. 

But hark ! the bells are beginning to 

chime ; 
And I feel that I am growing hoarse. 
I will put an end to my discourse, 
And leave the rest for some other 

time. 
For the bells themselves are the best 

of preachers. 
Their brazen lips are learned teachers. 
From their pulpits of stone, in the 

upper air, 
Sounding aloft, without crack or flaw. 
Shriller than trumpets under the Law, 
Now a sermon and now a prayer. 
The clangorous hammer is the tongue. 
This v/ay, that way, beaten and swung. 
That from mouth of brass, as from 

Mouth of Gold, 
May be taught the Testaments, New 

and Old. 
And above it the great cross-beam of 

wood 
Representeth the Holy Rood, 
Upon which, like the bell, our hopes 

are hung. 
And the wheel wherewith it is swayed 

and rung 
Is the mind of man, that round and 

round 
Sways, and maketh the tongue to 

sound ! 



And the rope, with its twisted cordage 
three, 

Denoteth the Scriptural Trinity 

Of Morals, and Symbols, and History ; 

And the upward and downward mo- 
tions show 

That we touch upon matters high and 
low ; 

And the constant change and trans- 
mutation 

Of action and of contemplation. 

Downward, the Scripture brought 
from on high, 

LTpward, exalted again to the sky ; 

Downward, the literal interpretation, 

Upward, the Vision and Mystery ! 

And now, my hearers, to make an 

end, 
I have only one word more to say ; 
In the church, in honor of Easter day, 
Will be represented a Miracle Play; 
And I hope you will all have the grace 

to attend ; 
Christ bring us at last to his felicity ! 
Pax vobiscum ! et Benedicite ! 

In the Cathedral. 



Kyrie Eleison ! 
Christe Eleison ! 



I am at home here in my Father's 

house ! 
These paintings of the Saints upon 

the walls 
Have all familiar and benignant faces. 

prince henry. 

The portraits of the family of God ! 
Thine own hereafter shall be placed 
among them. 



How very grand it is and wonderful ! 
Never have I beheld a church so 
splendid ! 



224 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



Sach columns, and such arches, and 
such windows, 

So many tombs and statues in the 
chapels. 

And under them so many confes- 
sionals. 

They must be for the rich. I should 
not like 

To tell my sins in such a church as 
this. 

Who built it ? 

PRINCE HENRY. 

A great master of his craft, 

Erwin von Steinback ; but not he 
alone. 

For many generations labored with 
him. 

Children that came to see these 
Saints in stone, 

As day by day out of the blocks they 
rose. 

Grew old and died, and still the work 
went on. 

And on, and on, and is not yet com- 
pleted. 

The generation that succeeds our 
own 

Perhaps may finish it. The archi- 
tect 

Built his great heart into these sculp- 
tured stones. 

And with him toiled his children, and 
their lives 

Were builded, with his own, into the 
walls. 

As offerings unto God. You see that 
statue 

Fixing its joyous, but deep-wrinkled 
eyes 

Upon the Pillar of the Angels yon- 
der. 

That is the image of the Master, 
carved 

By the fair hand of his owm child, 
Sabina. 



How beautiful is the column that he 
looks at ! 



PRINCE HENRY. 

That, too, she sculptured. At the 

base of it 
Stand the Evangelists; above their 

heads 
Four Angels blowing upon marble 

trumpets. 
And over them the blessed Christ, 

surrounded 
By his attendant ministers, upholding 
The instruments of his passion. 

ELSIE. 

O my Lord ! 
Would I could leave behind me upon 

earth 
Some monument to thy glory, such 

as this ! 

PRINCE HENRY. 

A greater monument than this thou 
leavest 

In thine own life, all purity and love ! 

See, too, the Rose, above the western 
portal 

Flamboyant with a thousand gorgeous 
colors. 

The perfect flower of Gothic loveli- 
ness ! 

ELSIE. 

And, in the gallery, the long line of 

statues, 
Christ with his twelve Apostles 

watching us, 

A Bishop in artnor, booted and 
spurred, passes with his train. 

PRINCE HENRY. 

But come away ; we have not time to 
look. 

The crowd already fills the church, 
and yonder, 

Upon a stage, a herald with a trum- 
pet. 

Clad like the Angel Gabriel, pro- 
claims 

The Mystery that will now be repre- 
' sented. 



i 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



225 



THE NATIVITY. 

A MIRACLE-PLAY. 

Introitus. 



Come, good people, all and each, 
Come and listen to our speech ! 
In your presence here I stand, 
With a trumpet in my hand, 
To announce the Easter Play, 
Which we represent to-day ! 
First of all we shall rehearse, 
In our action and our verse. 
The Nativity of our Lord, 
As written in the old record 
Of the Protevangehon, 
So that he who reads may run ! 
Blows his trumpet. 

I. Heaven. 

MERCY, at the feet of God. 

Have pity, Lord ! be not afraid 

To save mankind, whom thou hast 

made. 
Nor let the souls that were betrayed 
Perish eternally ! 

JUSTICE. 

It cannot be, it must not be ! 
When in the garden placed by thee. 
The fruit of the forbidden tree 
He ate, and he must die ! 



Have pity, Lord ! let penitence 
Atone for disobedience, 
Nor let the fruit of man's offence 
Be endless misery ! 

JUSTICE. 

What penitence proportionate 
Can e'er be felt for sin so great ? 
Of the forbidden fruit he ate. 
And damned must he be ! 



He shall be saved, if that within 
The bounds of earth one free from sin 
Be found, who for his kith and kin 
Will suffer martyrdom. 

THE FOUR VIRTUES. 

Lord ! we have searched the world 

around. 
From centre to the utmost bound. 
But no such mortal can be found ; 
Despairing, back we come. 



No mortal, but a God made man, 
Can ever carry out this plan. 
Achieving what none other can, 
Salvation unto all ! 



Go, then, O my beloved Son ! 
It can by thee alone be done ; 
By thee the victory shall be won 
O'er Satan and the Fall ! 

Here the Angel Gabriel shall leave 
Paradise and fly toT.uards the earth ; 
the jaws of Hell open below, and 
the Devils walk about, making a 
great noise. 



II. Mary at the Well. 



Along the garden walk, and thence 
Through the wicket in the garden 
fence, 

I steal with quiet pace. 
My pitcher at the well to fill. 
That lies so deep and cool and still, 

In this sequestered place. 
These sycamores keep guard around, 
I see no face, I hear no sound. 

Save bubblings of the spring, 
And my companions, who within 
The threads of gold and scarlet spin, 

And at their labor sing. 



226 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



THE ANGEL GABRIEL. 

Hail, Virgin Mary, full of grace ! 

Here Mary looketh around her, tre7n- 
bling, and then saith : 



Who is it speaketh in this place, 
With such a gentle voice ? 



The Lord of heaven is with thee now ! 
Blessed among all women thou, 
Who art his holy choice ! 

MARY, setting down the pitcher. 

What can this mean ? No one is 

near, 
And yet such sacred words I hear, 

I almost fear to stay. 
Here the Angel, appearing to her., 
shall say : 



Fear not, O Mary ! but believe ! 
For thou, a Virgin, shalt conceive 
A child this very day. 

Fear not, O Mary ! from the sky 
The majesty of the Most High 
Shall overshadow thee ! 

MARY. 

Behold the handmaid of the Lord ! 
According to thy holy word. 

So be it unto me ! 
Here the Devils shall again make a 
great noise, binder the stage. 

HL The Angels of the Seven 
Planets, 

bearing the Star of Bethlehem. 

the angels. 

The Angels of the Planets Seven, 
Across the shining fields of heaven 
The natal star we bring ! 



Dropping our sevenfold virtues down, 
As priceless jewels in the crown 
Of Christ, our new-born King. 



I am the Angel of the Sun, 

Whose flaming wheels began to run 

When God's almighty breath 
Said to the darkness and the Night, 
Let there be light ! and there was 
light ! 

I bring the gift of Faith. 



I am the Angel of the Moon, 
Darkened, to be rekindled soon 
Beneath the azure cope ! 
Nearest to earth, it is my ray 
That best illumes the midnight way. 
I bring the gift of Hope ! 



The Angel of the Star of Love, 

The Evening Star, that shines above 

The place where lovers be. 
Above all happy hearths and homes. 
On roofs of thatch, or golden domes, 

I .give him Charity ! 

ZOBIACHEL. 

The Planet Jupiter is mine ! 

The mightiest star of all that shine. 

Except the sun alone ! 
He is the High Priest of the Dove, 
And sends, from his great throne above, 

Justice, that shall atone ! 



The Planet Mercury, whose place 
Is nearest to the sun in space. 

Is my allotted sphere ! 
And with celestial ardor swift 
I bear upon my hands the gift 

Of heavenly Prudence here ! 

URIEL. 

I am the Minister of Mars, 

The strongest star among the stars ! 

My songs of power prelude 
The march and battle of man's life. 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



227 



And for the suffering and the strife, 
1 give him Fortitude ! 



The Angel of the uttermost 

Of all the shining, heavenly host, 

From the far-off expanse 
Of the Saturnian, endless space 
I bring the last, the crowning grace, 

The gift of Temperance ! 
A S2idden light shines froin the wifi- 

dows of the stable in the village 

below. 

IV. The Wise Men of the East. 

The stable of the Inn. The Virgin 
and Child. Three Gipsy Kings, 
Caspar, Melchior, and Bel- 
shazzar, shall come in. 



Hail to thee, Jesus of Nazareth ! 
Though in a manger thou drawest thy 

breath. 
Thou art greater than Life and Death, 

Greater than Joy or Woe ! 
This cross upon the line of life 
Portendeth struggle, toil, and strife, 
And through a region with dangers 
rife 

In darkness shalt thou go ! 

melchior. 

Hail to thee, King of Jerusalem ! 
Though humbly born in Bethlehem, 
A sceptre and a diadem 

Await thy brow and hand ! 
The sceptre is a sim.ple reed, 
The crown will make thy temples 

bleed, 
And in thy hour of greatest need, 

Abashed thy subjects stand ! 

BELSHAZZAR. 

Hail to thee, Christ of Christendom ! 
O'er all the earth thy kingdom come ! 
From distant Trebizond to Rome 
Thy name shall men adore ! 



Peace and good-will among all nien, 
The Virgin has returned again, 
Returned the old Saturnian reign 
And Golden Age once more. 

THE child CHRIST. 

Jesus, the Son of God, am I, 
Born here to suffer and to die 
According to the prophecy. 
That other men may live ! 

THE VIRGIN. 

And now these clothes, that wrapped 

him, take 
And keep them precious, for his sake ; 
Our benediction thus we make, 
Naught else have we to give. 
She gives them swaddling-clothes, and 
they depart. 

V. The Flight into Egypt. 

Here shall Joseph come in, leading 
an ass, on which are seated Mary 
attd the Child. 



Here will we rest us, under these 
Overhanging branches of the trees, 
Where robins chant their Litanies, 
And canticles of Joy. 

JOSEPH. 

My saddle-girths have given way 
With trudging through the heat to- 
day ; 
To you I think it is but play 
To ride and hold the boy. 

MARY. 

Hark ! how the robins shout and 

sing, 
As if to hail their infant King ! 
I will alight at yonder spring 
To wash his little coat. 

JOSEPH. 

And I will hobble well the ass, 
Lest, being loose upon the grass. 



228 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



He should escape ; for, by the mass, 

He is nimble as a goat. 
Here Mary shall alight and go to the 
spring. 



Joseph ! I am much afraid, 

For men are sleeping in the shade ; 

1 fear that we shall be waylaid, 

And robbed and beaten sore ! 
Here a band of robbers shall be seen 
sleeping^ two of whom shall rise atid 
come forward. 

DUMACHUS. 

Cock's soul ! deliver up your gold ! 

JOSEPH. 

I pray you, Sirs, let go your hold ! 
You see that I am weak and old, 
Of wealth I have no store. 

DUMACHUS. 

Give up your money ! 

TITUS. 

Prithee cease, 
Let these good people go in peace. 

DUMACHUS. 

First let them pay for their release, 
And then go on their way. 



These forty groats I give in fee, 
If thou wilt only silent be. 



May God be merciful to thee 
Upon the Judgment Da;' ! 

JESUS. 

When thirty years shall have gone 

by, 
I at Jerusalem shall die. 
By Jewish hands exalted high 

On the accursed tree. 
Then on my right and my left side, 



These thieves shall both be crucified, 
And Titus thenceforth shall abide 

In Paradise with me. 
Here a great rumor of trumpets and 

horses., like the noise of a king with 

his arjny, and the robbers shall take 

flight. 

VI. The Slaughter of the In- 
nocents. 

king herod. ^ 

Potz-tausend ! Himmel-sacrament ! 
Filled am I with great wonderment 

At this unwelcome news ! 
Am I not Herod ? Who shall dare 
My crown to take, my sceptre bear, 

As king among the Jews ? 

Here he shall stride up and down 
and flourish his sword. 

What ho ! I fain would drink a 

can 
Of the strong wine of Canaan ! 

The wine of Helbon bring, 
I purchased at the Fair of Tyre, 
As red as blood, as hot as fire. 

And fit for any king ! 
He quaffs great goblets of wine. 
Now at the window will I stand. 
While in the street the armed band 

The little children slay : 
The babe just born in Bethlehem 
Will surely slaughtered be with them, 

Nor live another day ! 
Here a voice of lamentatioji shall be 
heard in the street. 

RACHEL. 

O wicked king ! O cruel speed ! 
To do this most unrighteous deed ! 
My children all are slain ! 



Ho, seneschal ! another cup ! 

With wine of Sorek fill it up ! 

I would a bumper drain ! 



i 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



229 



May maledictions fall and blast 
Thyself and lineage, to the last 
Of all thy kith and kin! 



Another goblet ! quick ! and stir 
Pomegranate juice and drops of myrrh 
And calamus therein ! 

SOLDIERS, m the street. 

Give up thy child into our hands ! 

It is King Herod who commands 

That he should thus be slain ! 

THE NURSE MEDUSA. 

O monstrous men ! What have ye 

done ! 
It is King Herod's only son 
That ye have cleft in twain ! 



Ah, luckless day ! What words of 

fear 
Are these that smite upon my ear 

With such a doleful sound ! 
What torments rack my heart and 

head ! 
Would I were dead! would I were 
dead. 
And buried in the ground ! 
He falls dowjt and writhes as though 
eaten by worms. Hell opejts, and 
Satan and Astaroth co?ne forth, 
■ hi77i down. 



VII. Jesus at Play with his 
Schoolmates. 

JESUS. 

The shower is over. Let us play, 
And make some sparrows out of clay, 
Down by the river's side. 

JUDAS. 

See, how the stream has overflowed 



Its banks, and o'er the meadow road 
Is spreading far and wide ! 

They draw water out of the river by 
channels, and form little pools. 
Jesus makes twelve sparrows of 
clay, and the other boys do the 



JESUS. 

Look ! look ! how prettily I make 
These little sparrows by the lake 

Bend down their necks and drink ! 
Now will I make them sing and soar 
So far, they shall return no more 

Unto this river's brink. 

JUDAS. 

That canst thou not ! They are but 

clay, 
They cannot sing, nor fly away 
Above the meadow lands ! 

JESUS. 

Fly ! fly ! ye sparrows ! you are free, 
And while you live, remember me, 
Who made you with my hands. 

Here Jesus shall clap his hands, 
and the sparrows shall fly away, 
chirruping. 

JUDAS. 

Thou art a sorcerer, I know ; 
Oft has my mother told me so, 
I will not play with thee ! 
He strikes Jesus on the right side. 

JESUS. 

Ah, Judas ! thou hast smote my side, 
And when I shall be crucified. 

There shall I pierced be ! 
Here Joseph shall co7ne in, and say: 

JOSEPH. 

Ye wicked boys ! why do ye play, 
And break the holy Sabbath day ? 
What, think ye, will your mothers say 
To see you in such plight ! 



230 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



In such a sweat and such a heat, 
With all that mud upon your feet ! 
There 's not a beggar in the street 
Makes such a sorry sight! 



Vin. The Village School. 

The Rabbi Ben Israel, with a long 
beard, sitting on a high stool, with 
a rod in his hand. 



I am the Rabbi Ben Israel, 
Throughout this village known full 

well. 
And, as my scholars all will tell, 

Learned in things divine ; 
The Kabala and Talmud hoar 
Than all the prophets prize I more, 
For water is all Bible lore, 

But Mishna is strong wine. 

My fame extends from West to East, 
And always, at the Purim feast, 
lam as drunk as any beast 

That wallows in his sty ; 
The wine it so elateth me, 
That I no difference can see 
Between '' Accursed Haman be ! " 

And " Blessed be Mordecai ! " 

Come hither, Judas Iscariot. 
Say, if thy lesson thou hast got 
From the Rabbinical Book or not. 
Why howl the dogs at night ? 

JUDAS. 

In the Rabbinical Book, it saith 
The dogs howl, when with icy breath 
Great Sammael, the Angel of Death, 
Takes through the town his flight ! 



Well, boy ! now say, if thou art wise, 
When the Angel of Death, who is full 

of eyes. 
Comes where a sick man dying lies, 
What doth he to the wight ? 



JUDAS. I 

He stands beside him, dark and tall. 
Holding a sword, from which doth fall 
Into his mouth a drop of gall, 
And so he turneth white. 



And now, my Judas, say to me 
What the great Voices Four may be. 
That quite across the world do flee, 
And are not heard by men ? 

JUDAS. 

The Voice of the Sun in heaven's 

dome, 
The Voice of the Murmuring of 

Rome, 
The Voice of a Soul that goeth home, 
And the Angel of the Rain ! 



Well have ye answered every one ! 
Now little Jesus, the carpenter's son, 
Let us see how thy task is done. 
Canst thou thy letters say ? 



Aleph. 



JESUS. 



What next ? Do not stop yet, 

Go on with all the alphabet. 

Come, Aleph, Beth ; dost thou forget ! 

Cock's soul ! thou 'dst rather play ! 

JESUS. 

What Aleph means I fain would know 
Before I any farther go ! 



O, by Saint Peter ! wouldst thou so ? 

Come hither, boy, to me. 
As surely as the letter Jod 
Once cried aloud, and spake to God, 
So surely shalt thou feel this rod, 

And punished shalt thou be ! 
Here Rabbi Ben Israel shall lift up 

his rod to strike Jesus, and his 

right arm shall be paralyzed. 



41 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



231 



IX. Crowned with Flowers. 

Jesus sitting among his playmates, 
crowned with /lowers as their King. 



We spread our garments on the 

ground ! 
With fragrant flowers thy head is 

crowned. 
While Hke a guard we stand around, 

And hail thee as our King ! 
Thou art the new King of the Jews ! 
Nor let the passers-by refuse 
To bring that homage which men 
use 
To majesty to bring. 
Here a traveller shall go by, and the 
boys shall lay hold of his garme7its 
and say : 



Come hither ! and all reverence pay 
Unto our monarch, crowned to-day ! 
Then go rejoicing on your way, 
In all prosperity ! 

traveller . 

Hail to the King of Bethlehem, 
Who weareth in his diadem 
The yellow crocus for the gem 

Of his authority ! 
He passes by ; and others come in, 
bearing on a litter a sick child. 



Set down the litter and draw near ! 
The King of Bethlehem is here ! 
What ails the child, who seems to 
fear 
That we shall do him harm ? 

THE bearers. 

He climbed up to the robin's nest, 
And out there darted, from his rest, 
A serpent with a crimson crest, 
And stung him in the arm. 



JESUS. 

Bring him to me, and let me feel 
The wounded place ; my touch can 

heal 
The sting of serpents, and can steal 

The poison from the bite ! 
He touches the wotmd, a?td the boy 

begins to cry. 
Cease to lament ! I can foresee 
That thou hereafter known shalt be, 
Among the men who follow me. 

As Simon the Canaanite ! 

EPILOGUE. 

In the after part of the day 

Will be represented another play. 

Of the Passion of our Blessed Lord, 

Beginning directly after Nones ! 

At the close of which we shall accord, 

By way of benison and reward. 

The sight of a holy Martyr's bones ! 



IV. 



The Road to Hirschau. 

Prince Henry and Elsie, with 
their atteiidants, on horseback. 



Onward and onward the highway 
runs to the distant city, impa- 
tiently bearing 

Tidings of human joy and disaster, 
of love and of hate, of doing and 
daring ! 

prince henry. 

This life of ours is a wild aeolian harp 
of many a joyous strain. 

But under them all there runs a loud 
perpetual wail, as of souls in 
pain. 

ELSIE. 

Faith alone can interpret life, and 
the heart that aches and bleeds 
with the stigma 



1 



232 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



Of pain, alone bears the likeness of 
Christ, and can comprehend its 
dark enigma. 

PRINCE HENRY. 

Man is selfish, and seeketh pleasure 
with little care of what may be- 
tide ; 

Else why am I travelling here beside 
thee, a demon that rides by an 
angel's side ? 



All the hedges are white with dust, 

and the great dog under the 

creaking wain 
Hangs his head in the lazy heat, 

while onward the horses toil and 

strain. 

PRINCE HENRY. 

Now they stop at the way-side inn, 

and the wagoner laughs with the 

landlord's daughter. 
While out of the dripping trough the 

horses distend their leathern 

sides with water. 



All through life there are way-side 

inns, where man may refresh his 

soul with love ; 
Even the lowest may quench his 

thirst at rivulets fed by springs 

from above. 

PRINCE HENRY. 

Yonder, where rises the cross of 

stone, our journey along the 

highway ends. 
And over the fields, by a bridle path, 

down into the broad green valley 

descends. 

ELSIE. 

I am not sorry to leave behind the 
beaten road with its dust and 
heat; 



The air will be sweeter far, and the 
turf will be softer under horses' 
feet. 
They turn down a green lane. 

ELSIE. 

Sweet is the air with the budding 

haws, and the valley stretching 

for miles below 
Is white with blossoming cherry-trees, 

as if just covered with lightest 

snow. 

PRINCE HENRY. 

Over our heads a white cascade is 
gleaming against the distant hill ; 

We cannot hear it, nor see it move, 
but it hangs like a banner when 
winds are still. 

ELSIE. 

Damp and cool is this deep ravine, and 
cool the sound of the brook by 
our side ! 

What is this castle that rises above us, 
and lords it over a land so wide ? 

PRINCE HENRY. 

It is the home of the Counts of Calva ; 
well have I known these scenes 
of old, 

Well I remember each tower and tur- 
ret, remember the brooklet, the 
wood, and the wold. 



Hark ! from the little village below us 
the bells of the church are ringing 
for rain ! 

Priests and peasants in long proces- 
sion come forth and kneel on the 
arid plain. 

PRINCE HENRY. 

They have not long to wait, for I see 
in the south uprising a little cloud, 

That before the sun shall be set will 
cover the sky above us as with a 
shroud. 

They pass on. 



i 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



233 



The Convent of Hirschau in the 
Black Forest. 

The Co7tvent cellar. Friar Claus 
comes in with a light a?td a basket 
of ejupty flagons . 

FRIAR CLAUS. 

I ALWAYS enter this sacred place 
With a thoughtful, solemn, and rev- 
erent pace, 
Pausing long enough on each stair 
To breathe an ejaculatory prayer, 
And a benediction on the vines 
That produce these various sorts of 

wines ! 
For my part, I am well content 
That we have got through with the 

tedious Lent, 
Fasting is all very well for those 
Who have to contend with invisible 

foes ; 
But I am quite sure it does not agree 
With a quiet, peaceable man like me. 
Who am not of that nervous and mea- 
gre kind 
That are always distressed in body 

and mind ! 
And at times it really does me good 
To come down among this brother- 
hood, 
Dwelling forever underground, 
Silent, contemplative, round, and 

sound ; 
Each one old, and brown with mould. 
But filled to the lips with the ardor 

of youth, 
With the latent power and love of 

truth. 
And with virtues fervent and manifold. 

I have heard it said, that at Easter-tide, 
When buds are swelling on every side. 
And the sap begins to move in the 

vine. 
Then in all the cellars, far and wide. 
The oldest, as well as the newest, wine 
Begins to stir itself, and ferment. 
With a kind of revolt and discontent 
r At being so long in darkness pent, 



And fain would burst from its sombre 

tun 
To bask on the hill-side in the sun ; 
As in the bosom of us poor friars. 
The tumult of half-subdued desires 
For the world that we have left behind 
Disturbs at times all peace of mind ! 
And now that we have lived through 

Lent, 
My duty it is, as often before. 
To open awhile the prison-door. 
And give these restless spirits vent. 

Now here is a cask that stands alone, 
And has stood a hundred years or 

more. 
Its beard of cobwebs, long and hoar, 
Trailing and sweeping along the floor, 
Like Barbarossa, who sits in his cave, 
Taciturn, sombre, sedate, and grave, 
Till his beard has grown through the 

table of stone. 
It is of the quick and not of the dead ! 
In its veins the blood is hot and red, 
And a heart stiil beats in those ribs of 

oak 
That time may have tamed, but has 

not broke. 
It comes from Bacharach on the Rhine, 
Is one of the three best kinds of wine. 
And costs some hundred florins the 

ohm ; 
But that I do not consider dear, 
When I remember that every year 
Four butts are sent to the Pope of 

Rome. 
And whenever a goblet thereof I drain. 
The old rhyme keeps running in my 

brain : 
At Bacharach on the Rhine, 
At Hochheim on the Main, 
And at Wurzburg on the Stein, 
Grow the three best kinds of wine ! 

They are all good wines, and better far 
Than those of the Neckar, or those of 

the Ahr. 
In particular, Wurzburg well may boast 
Of its blessed wine of the Holy Ghost, 
Which of all wines I like the most. 



234 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



This I shall draw for the Abbot's 

drinking, 
Who seems to be much of my way of 

thinking. 

Fills a flagon. 
Ah ! how the streamlet laughs and 

sings ! 
What a delicious fragrance springs 
From the deep flagon, while it fills, 
As of hyacinths and daffodils ! 
Between this cask and the Abbot's lips 
Many have been the sips and slips ; 
Many have been the draughts of wine, 
On their way to his, that have stopped 

at mine ; 
And many a time my soul has hankered 
For a deep draught out of his silver 

tankard, 
When it should have been busy with 

other affairs, 
Less with its longings and more with 

its prayers. 
But now there is no such awkward 

condition, 
No danger of death and eternal per- 
dition ; 
So here 's to the Abbot and Brothers 

all. 
Who dwell in this convent of Peter 

and Paul ! 

He drinks. 
O cordial delicious ! O soother of 

pain ! 
It flashes like sunshine into my brain ! 
A benison rest on the Bishop who 

sends 
Such a fudder of wine as this to his 

friends ! 

And now a flagon for such as may ask 
A draught from the noble Bacharach 

cask. 
And I will be gone, though I know 

full well 
The cellar 's a cheerfuller place than 

the cell. 
Behold where he stands, all sound and 

good, 
Brown and old in his oaken hood ; 



Silent he seems externally 
As any Carthusian monk may be ; 
But within, what a spirit of deep un- 
rest ! 
What a seething and simmering in his 

breast ! 
As if the heaving of his great heart 
Would burst his belt of oak apart ! 
Let me unloose this button of wood. 
And quiet a little his turbulent mood. 

Sets it running. 
See ! how its currents gleam and shine, 
As if they had caught the purple 

hues 
Of autumn sunsets on the Rhine, J 

Descending and mingling with the 1 

dews ; ^ 

Or as if the grapes were stained with 

the blood 
Of the innocent boy, who, some years 

back. 
Was taken and crucified by the Jews, 
In that ancient town of Bacharach ; 
Perdition upon those infidel Jews, 
In that ancient town of Bacharach ! jj 
The beautiful town, that gives us I 

wine 
With the fragrant odor of Muscadine ! 
I should deem it wrong to let this 

pass 
Without first touching my lips to the 

glass. 
For here in the midst of the current 

I stand, 
Like the stone Pfalz in the midst of 

the river, 
Taking toll upon either hand, 
And much more grateful to the giver. 

He drinks. 
Plere, now, is a very inferior kind, 
Such as in any town you may find, 
Such as one might imagine would 

suit 
The rascal who dranlc wine out of a 

boot. 
And, after all, it was not a crime, 
For he won thereby Dorf HiifFels- 

heim. 
A jolly old toper ! who at a pull 



i 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



235 



Could drink a postilionVs jack-boot 

full, 
And ask with a laugh, when that was 

done, 
If the fellow had left the other one ! 
This wine is as good as we can afford 
To the friars, who sit at the lower 

board, 
And cannot distinguish bad from 

good, 
And are far better oif than if they 

could. 
Being rather the rude disciples of 

beer 
Than of anything more refined and 

dear ! 
Fills the othe?' flagon and departs. 

The Scriptorium. 

Friar Pacificus transcribing and 
illuminating. 

FRIAR PACIFICUS. 

It is growing dark ! Yet one line 

more, 
And then my work for to-day is o'er. 
I come again to the name of the 

Lord! 
Ere I that awful name record. 
That is spoken so lightly among men. 
Let me pause awhile, and wash my 

pen; 
Pure from blemish and blot must it 

be 
When it writes that word of mystery ! 

Thus have I labored on and on, 
Nearly through the Gospel of John. 
Can it be that from the lips 
Of this same gentle Evangelist, 
That Christ himself perhaps has 

kissed, 
Came the dread Apocalypse ! 
It has a very awful look. 
As it stands there at the end of the 

book. 
Like the sun in an eclipse. 
Ah me ! when I think of that vision 

divine, 



Think of writing it, line by line, 

I stand in awe of the terrible curse. 

Like the trump of doom, in the clos- 
ing verse, 

God forgive me ! if ever I 

Take aught from the book of that 
Prophecy, 

Lest my part too should be taken 
away 

From the Book of Life on the Judg- 
ment Day. 

This is well written, though I say it ! 
I should not be afraid to display it, 
In open day, on the selfsame shelf 
With the writings of St. Thecla her- 
self, 
Or of Theodosius, who of old 
Wrote the Gospels in letters of gold ! 
That goodly folio standing yonder, 
Without a single blot or blunder, 
Would not bear away the palm from 

mine. 
If we should compare them line for 
line. 

There, now, is an initial letter ! 
Saint Ulric himself never made a 

better ! 
Finished down to the leaf and the 

snail, 
Down to the eyes on the peacock's 

tail ! 
And now, as I turn the volume over, 
And see what lies between cover and 

cover. 
What treasures of art these pages 

hold, 
All ablaze with crimson and gold, 
God forgive me ! I seem to feel 
A certain satisfaction steal 
Into my heart, and into my brain. 
As if my talent had not lain 
Wrapped in a napkin, and all in vain. 
Yes, I might almost say to the Lord, 
Here is a copy of thy Word, 
Written out with much toil and pain ; 
Take it, O Lord, and let it be 
As something I have done for thee ! 

He looks from the window. 



236 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



How sweet the air is ! How fair the 

scene ! 
I wish I had as lovely a green 
To paint my landscapes and my 

leaves ! 
How the swallows twitter under the 

eaves ! 
There, now, there is one in her nest ; 
I can just catch a glimpse of her head 

and breast, 
And will sketch her thus, in her quiet 

nook. 
For the margin of my Gospel book. 

He makes a sketch. 
I can see no more. Through the 

valley yonder 
A shower is passing; I hear the 

thunder 
Mutter its curses in the air. 
The Devil's own and only prayer ! 
The dusty road is brown with rain, 
And, speeding on with might and 

main, 
Hitherward rides a gallant train. 
They do not parley, they cannot wait. 
But hurry in at the convent gate. 
What a fair lady ! and beside her 
What a handsome, graceful, noble 

rider ! 
Now she gives him her hand to 

alight; 
They will beg a shelter for the night. 
I will go down to the corridor. 
And try to see that face once more ; 
It will do for the face of some beau- 
tiful Saint, 
Or for one of the Maries I shall paint. 
Goes out. 

The Cloisters. 

The Abbot Ernestus pacing to and 
fro. 

ABBOT. 

Slowly, slowly up the wall 
Steals the sunshine, steals the shade ; 
Evening damps begin to fall, 
Evening shadows are displayed. 
Round me, o'er me, everywhere. 



All the sky is grand with clouds, 'A 
And athwart the evening air '-"a^ 

Wheel the swallows home in crowds. 
Shafts of sunshine from the west 
Paint the dusky windows red ; 
Darker shadows, deeper rest, 
Underneath and overhead. 
Darker, darker, and more wan. 
In my breast the shadows fall ; 
Upward steals the life of man, 
As the sunshine from the wall. 
From the wall into the sky, 
From the roof along the spire ; 
Ah, the souls of those that die 
Are but sunbeams lifted higher. 

Enter Prince Henry, 
prince henry. 
Christ is risen ! 

ABBOT. 

Amen ! he is arisen ! 
His peace be with you ! 

prince henry. 

Here it reigns forever. 

The peace of God, thatpasseth under- 
standing. 

Reigns in these cloisters and these 
corridors. 

Are you Ernestus, Abbot of the con- 
vent ? 



I am. 



prince henry. 



And I Prince Henry of Hoheneck, 
Who crave your hospitality to-night. 



You are thrice welcome to our humble 
walls. 

You do us honor; and we shall re- 
quite it, 

I fear, but poorly, entertaining you 

With Paschal eggs, and our poor con- 
vent wine. 

The remnants of our Easter holidays. 



i 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



237 



PRINCE HENRY. 

How fares it with the holy monks of 

Hirschau ? 
Are all things well with them ? 

ABBOT. 

All things are well. 

PRINCE HENRY. 

A noble convent ! I have known it 

long 
By the report of travellers. I now 

see 
Their commendations lag behind the 

truth. 
You lie here in the valley of the 

Nagold 
As in a nest : and the still river, 

gliding 
Along its bed, is like an admonition 
How all things pass. Your lands are 

rich and ample, 
And your revenues large. God's 

benediction 
Rests on your convent. 



By our charities 
We strive to merit it. Our Lord and 

Master, 
When he departed, left us in his will. 
As our best legacy on earth, the 

poor ! 
These we have always with us ; had 

we not, 
Our hearts would grow as hard as are 

these stones. 

PRINCE HENRY. 

If I remember right, the Counts of 

Calva 
Founded your convent. 

ABBOT. 

Even as you say. 

PRINCE HENRY. 

And, if I err not, it is very old. 



Within these cloisters lie already 

buried 
Twelve holy Abbots. Underneath 

the flags 
On which we stand, the Abbot William 

lies. 
Of blessed memory. 

PRINCE HENRY. 

And whose tomb is that. 
Which bears the brass escutcheon ? 

ABBOT. 

A benefactor's. 
Conrad, a Count of Calva, he who 

stood 
Godfather to our bells. 

PRINCE HENRY. 

Your monks are learned 
And holy men, I trust. 



There are among them 
Learned and holy men. Yet in this 

age 
We need another Hildebrand, to shake 
And purify us like a mighty wind. 
The world is wicked, and sometimes 

I wonder 
God does not lose his patience with 

it wholly, 
And shatter it like glass ! Even here, 

at times. 
Within these walls, where all should 

be at peace, 
I have my trials. Time has laid his 

hand 
Upon my heart, gently, not smiting it, 
But as a harper lays his open palm 
Upon his harp, to deaden its vibra- 
tions. 
Ashes are on my head, and on my lips 
Sackcloth, and in my breast a heavi- 
ness 
And weariness of life, that makes me 

ready 
To say to the dead Abbots under us, 



238 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



"Make room for me ! " Only I see 

the dusk 
Of evening twilight coming, and have 

not 
Completed half my task; and so at 

times 
The thought of my short-comings in 

this life 
Falls like a shadow on the life to 

come. 

.. PRINCE HENRY. 

We must all die, and not the old 

alone ; 
The young have no exemption from 

that doom. 



Ah, yes ! the young may die, but the 

old must ! 
That is the difference. 

PRINCE HENRY. 

I have heard much laud 
Of your transcribers. Your Scripto- 
rium 
Is famous among all, your manuscripts 
Praised for their beauty and their 
excellence. 



That is indeed our boast. If you 

desire it, 
You shall behold these treasures. 

And meanwhile 
Shall the Refectorarius bestow 
Your horses and attendants for the 

night. 
They go in. The Vesper-bell rings. 



The Chapel. 

Vespers', after which the monks retire, 
a chorister leading an old ?non/e who 
is blijid. 

PRINCE HENRY. 

They are all gone, save one who 

lingers. 
Absorbed in deep and silent prayer. 



As if his heart could find no rest, 
At times he beats his heaving breast 
With clenched and convulsive fingers, 
Then lifts them trembling in the air. 
A chorister, with golden hair. 
Guides hitherward his heavy pace. 
Can it be so ? Or does my sight 
Deceive me in the uncertain light ? 
Ah no ! I recognize that face, 
Though Time has touched it in his 

flight, 
And changed the auburn hair to white. 
It is Count Hugo of the Rhine, 
The deadliest foe of all our race, 
And hateful unto me and mine ! 

the blind monk. 

Who is it that doth stand so near 
His whispered words I almost hear ? 

prince henry. 
I am Prince Henry of Hoheneck, 
And you. Count Hugo of the Rhine ! 
I know you, and I see the scar. 
The brand upon your forehead, shine 
And redden like a baleful star ! 

the blind monk. 

Count Hugo once, but now the wreck 

Of what I was. O Hoheneck ! 

The passionate will, the pride, the 

wrath 
That bore me headlong on my path, 
Stumbled and staggered into fear, 
And failed me in my mad career, 
As a tired steed some evil-doer, 
Alone upon a desolate moor, 
Bewildered, lost, deserted, blind, 
And hearing loud and close behind 
The overtaking steps of his pursuer. 
Then suddenly from the dark there 

came 
A voice that called me by my name, 
And said to me, " Kneel down and 

pray ! " 
And so my terror passed away, 
Passed utterly away forever. 
Contrition, penitence, remorse. 
Came on me, with o'erwhelming 



I 



force ; 



i 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



239 



A hope, a longing, an endeavor, 

By days of penance and nights of 

prayer, 
To frustrate and defeat despair ! 
Cahn, deep, and still is now my 

heart, 
With tranquil waters overflowed ; 
A lake whose unseen fountains start, 
Where once the hot volcano glowed. 
And you, O Prince of Hoheneck ! 
Have known me in that earlier time, 
A man of violence and crime, 
Whose passions brooked no curb nor 

check. 
Behold me now, in gentler mood, 
One of this holy brotherhood. 
Give me your hand ; here let me 

kneel ; 
Make your reproaches sharp as 

steel ; 
Spurn me, and smite me on each 

cheek ; 
No violence can harm the meek. 
There is no wound Christ cannot 

heal ! 
Yes; lift your princely hand, and 

take 
Revenge, if 't is revenge you seek ; 
Then pardon me, for Jesus' sake ! 

PRINCE HENRY. 

Arise, Count Hugo ! let there be 

No farther strife nor enmity 

Between us twain ; we both have 
erred ! 

Too rash in act, too wroth in word. 

From the beginning have we stood 

In fierce, defiant attitude. 

Each thoughtless of the other's 
right. 

And each reliant on his might. 

But now our souls are more sub- 
dued ; 

The hand of God, and not in vain. 

Has touched us with the fire of pain. 

Let us kneel down, and side by side 

Pray, till our souls are purified. 

And pardon will not be denied ! 
They kneel. 



The Refectory. 

Gaiidiohim of Monks at 7md7tight. 
Lucifer disguised as a Fi'iar. 

FRIAR PAUL sings. 

Ave ! color vini clari, 
Dulcis potus, non amari, 
Tua nos inebriari 
Digneris potentia ! 

FRIAR CUTHBERT. 

Not SO much noise, my worthy freres, 
You '11 disturb the Abbot at his 
prayers. 

FRIAR PAUL sings. 

O ! quam placens in colore ! 
O ! quam fragrans in odore ! 
O ! quam sapidum in ore ! 
Dulce linguae vinculum ! 

FRIAR CUTHBERT. 

I should think your tongue had 
broken its chain ! 

FRIAR PAUL sings. 

Felix venter quem intrabis ! 
Felix guttur quod rigabis \ 
Felix OS quod tu lavabis ! 
Et beata labia ! 

FRIAR CUTHBERT. 

Peace, I say, peace ! 
Will you never cease ! 
You will rouse up the Abbot, I tell you 
again. 

FRIAR JOHN. 

No danger ! to-night he will let us 

alone. 
As I happen to know he has guests of 

his own. 

FRIAR CUTHBERT. 

Who are they ? 

FRIAR JOHN. 

A German Prince and his train, 
Who arrived here just before the rain. 



240 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



There is with him a damsel fair to see, 
As slender and graceful as a reed! 
When she alighted from her steed. 
It seemed like a blossom blown from 
a tree. 

FRIAR CUTHBERT. 

None of your pale-faced girls for me ! 
None of your damsels of high degree ! 

FRIAR JOHN. 

Come, old fellow, drink down to your 

peg! 
But do not drink any farther, I beg ! 

FRIAR PAUL sings. 

In the days of gold, 
The days of old, 
Crosier of wood 
And bishop of gold ! 

FRIAR CUTHBERT. 

What an infernal racket and riot ! 

Can you not drink your wine in quiet ? 

Why fill the convent with such scan- 
dals, 

As if we were so many drunken Van- 
dals ? 

FRIAR PAUL COIltillUeS. 

Now we have changed 
That law so good, 
To crosier of gold 
And bishop of wood ! 

FRIAR CUTHBERT. 

Well, then, since you are in the mood 
To give your noisy humors vent. 
Sing and howl to your hearths content ! 

CHORUS OF MONKS. 

Funde vinum, funde ! 
Tanquam sint fluminis undae. 
Nee quaeras unde, 
Sed fundas semper abunde ! 

FRIAR JOHN. 

What is the name of yonder friar, 



With an eye that glows like a coal of 

fire. 
And such a black mass of tangled hair ? 

FRIAR PAUL. 

He who is sitting there, 
With a rollicking, 
Devil may care. 
Free and easy look and air. 
As if he were used to such feasting 
and frolicking ? 



FRIAR JOHN. 



The same. 






FRIAR PAUL. 



He 's a stranger. You had better ask 

his name, 
And where he is going, and whence 

he came. 

FRIAR JOHN. 

Hallo ! Sir Friar ! 

FRIAR PAUL. 

You must raise your voice a little 

higher. 
He does not seem to hear what you say. 
Now, try again ! He is looking this 

way. 

FRIAR JOHN. 

Hallo ! Sir Friar, 

We wish to inquire 

Whence you came, and where you are 

going. 
And anything else that is worth the 

knowing. 
So be so good as to open your head. 



I am a Frenchman born and bred. 
Going on a pilgrimage to Rome. 
My home 

Is the convent of St. Gildas de Rhuys, 
Of which, very like, you never have 
heard. 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



241 



( 



Never a word ! 

LUCIFER. 

You must know, then, it is in the dio- 
cese 
Called the Diocese of Vannes, 
In the province of Brittany. 
From the gray rocks of Morbihan 
It overlooks the angry sea ; 
The very sea-shore where, 
In his great despair, 
Abbot Abelard walked to and fro. 
Filling the night with woe, 
And wailing aloud to the merciless 

seas 
The name of his sweet Heloise ! 
Whilst overhead 

The convent windows gleamed as red 
As the fiery eyes of the monks within. 
Who with jovial din 
Gave themselves up to all kinds of sin ! 
Ha ! that is a convent ! that is an 

abbey ! 
Over the doors 
None of your death-heads carved in 

wood. 
None of your Saints looking pious and 

good. 
None of your Patriarchs old and 

shabby ! 
But the heads and tusks of boars. 
And the cells 

Hung all round with the fells 
Of the fallow-deer. 
And then what cheer ! 
What jolly, fat friars. 
Sitting round the great, roaring fires. 
Roaring louder than they. 
With their strong wines, 
And their concubines. 
And never a bell. 
With its swagger and swell, 
Calling you up with a start of aifright 
In the dead of night, 
To send you grumbling down dark 

stairs. 
To mumble your prayers. 
But the cheery crow 



Of cocks in the yard below, 

After daybreak, an hour or so, 

And the barking of deep-mouthed 

hounds, 
These are the sounds 
That, instead of bells, salute the ear. 
And then all day 
Up and away 

Through the forest, hunting the deer ! 
Ah, my friends ! I 'm afraid that here 
You are a little too pious, a little too 

tame. 
And the more is the shame. 
'T is the greatest folly 
Not to be jolly ; 
That 's what I think ! 
Come, drink, drink. 
Drink, and die game ! 

MONKS. 

And your Abbot What's-his-name ? 

LUCIFER. 

Abelard ! 

MONKS. 

Did he drink hard ? 



O, no ! Not he ! 
He was a dry old fellow, 
Without juice enough to get thor- 
oughly mellow. 
There he stood, 
Lowering at us in sullen mood, 
As if he had come into Brittany 
Just to reform our brotherhood ! 

A roar of laughter. 
But you see 
It never would do ! 
For some of us knew a thing or two. 
In the Abbey of St. Gildas de Rhuys ! 
For instance, the great ado 
With old Fulbert's niece. 
The young and lovely Heloise ! 

FRIAR JOHN. 

Stop there, if you please, 



242 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



Till we drink to the fair Heloise. 
ALL, drinking and shouting. 
Heloise ! Heloise ! 

The Chapel-bell tolls. 

LUCIFER, starting. 

What is that bell for ? Are you such 
asses 

As to keep up the fashion of mid- 
night masses ? 

FRIAR CUTHBERT. 

It is only a poor, unfortunate brother, 
Who is gifted with most miraculous 

powers 
Of getting up at all sorts of hours, 
And, by way of penance and Christian 

meekness, 
Of creeping silently out of his cell 
To take a pull at that hideous bell ; . 
So that all the monks who are lying 

awake 
May murmur some kind of prayer for 

his sake. 
And adapted to his peculiar weakness ! 

FRIAR JOHN. 

From frailty and fall — 

ALL. 

Good Lord, deliver us all ! 

FRIAR CUTHBERT. 

And before the bell for matins sounds, 
He takes his lantern, and goes the 

rounds. 
Flashing it into our sleepy eyes, 
Merely to say it is time to arise. 
But enough of that. Go on, if you 

please. 
With your story about St. Gil das de 

Rhuys. 



Well, it finally came to pass 

That, half in fun and half in malice, 

One Sunday at Mass 

We put some poison into the chalice. 



But, either by accident or design, 

Peter Abelard kept away 

From the chapel that day, 

And a poor young friar, who in hii 

stead 
Drank the sacramental wine. 
Fell on the steps of the altar, dead ! 
But look ! do you see at the window 

there 
That face, with a look of grief and 

despair, 
That ghastly face, as of one in pain ? 



MONKS. 

Who ? where ? 

LUCIFER. 

As I spoke, it vanished away agaii 

FRIAR CUTHBERT. 



I 



It is that nefarious 

Siebald the Refectorarius. 

That fellow is always playing the 

scout. 
Creeping and peeping and prowling 

about ; 
And then he regales 
The Abbot with slanderous tales. 



A spy in the convent ? One of the 

brothers 
Telling scandalous tales of the others ? 
Out upon him, the lazy loon ! 
I would put a stop to that pretty soon, 
In a way he should rue it. 

MONKS. 

How shall we do it ? 



Do you, brother Paul, 

Creep under the window, close to the 

wall, ^ 
And open it suddenly when I call. 
Then seize the villain by the hair, 
And hold him there. 
And punish him soundly, once for 

all. 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



243 



FRIAR CUTHBERT. 

As St. Dunstan of old, 

We are told, 

Once caught the Devil by the nose ! 



Ha ! ha ! that story is very clever, 
But has no foundation whatsoever. 
Quick ! for I see his face again 
Glaring in at the window-pane ; 
Now ! now ! and do not spare your 
blows. 

Friar Paul opens the window sud- 
denly, and seizes Siebald. They 
beat hi?n. 

FRIAR SIEBALD. 

Help ! help ! are you going to slay 
me 1 

FRIAR PAUL. 

That will teach you again to betray 
me ! 

FRIAR SIEBALD. 

Mercy ! mercy ! 

FRIAR PAUL, shouting and beating. 

Rumpas bellorum lorum. 
Vim confer amorum 
Morum verorum rorum 
Tu plena polorum ! 



Who stands in the doorway yonder. 
Stretching out his trembling hand. 
Just as Abelard used to stand. 
The flash of his keen, black eyes 
Forerunning the thunder ? 

THE MONKS, in confusion. 
The Abbot! the Abbot ! 

FRIAR CUTHBERT. 

And what is the wonder ! 
He seems to have taken you by sur- 
prise. 



FRIAR FRANCIS. 

Hide the great flagon 

From the eyes of the dragon ! 

FRIAR CUTHBERT. 

Pull the brown hood over your face ! 
This will bring us into disgrace ! 



What means this revel and carouse ? 
Is this a tavern and drinking house ? 
Are you Christian monks, or heathen 

devils, 
To pollute this convent with your 

revels ? 
Were Peter Damian still upon earth, 
To be shocked by such ungodly mirth. 
He would write your names, with pen 

of gall, 
In his Book of Gomorrah, one and 

all! 
Away, you drunkards ! to your cells, 
And pray till you hear the matin- 
bells ; 
You, Brother Francis, and you, 

Brother Paul ! 
And as a penance mark each prayer 
With the scourge upon your shoulders 

bare; 
Nothing atones for such a sin 
But the blood that follows the disci- 
pline. 
And you. Brother Cuthbert, come 

with me 
Alone into the sacristy ; 
You, who should be a guide to your 

brothers, 
And are ten times worse than all the 

others. 
For you IVe a draught that has long 

been brewing, 
You shall do a penance worth the 

doing ! 
Away to your prayers, then, one and 

all! 
I wonder the very convent wall 
Does not crumble and crush you in 

its fall ! 



244 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



The Neighboring Nunnery. 

The Abbess Irmingard sitting with 
Elsie in the moonlight. 

irmingard. 

The night is silent, the wind is still, 
The moon is looking from yonder hill 
Down upon convent, and grove, and 

garden ; 
The clouds have passed away from 

her face. 
Leaving behind them no sorrowful 

trace, 
Only the tender and quiet grace 
Of one, whose heart has been healed 

with pardon. 

And such am L My soul within 
Was dark with passion and soiled 

with sin. 
But now its wounds are healed again ; 
Gone are the anguish, the terror, and 

pain ; 
For across that desolate land of woe, 
O'er whose burning sands I was forced 

.to go, 
A wind from heaven began to blow ; 
And all my being trembled and 

shook. 
As the leaves of the tree, or the grass 

of the field. 
And I was healed, as the sick are 

healed. 
When fanned by the leaves of the 

Holy Book ! 

As thou sittest in the moonlight there, 
Its glory flooding thy golden hair. 
And the only darkness that which 

lies 
In the haunted chambers of thine 

eyes, 
I feel my soul drawn unto thee. 
Strangely, and strongly, and more and 

more. 
As to one I have known and loved 

before ; 
For every soul is akin to me 
That dwells in the land of mystery ! 



I am the Lady Irmingard, 
Born of a noble race and name ! 
Many a wondering Suabian bard. 
Whose Hfe was dreary, and bleak and 

hard, 
Has found through me the way to 

fame. 
Brief and bright were those days, and 

the night 
Which followed was full of a lurid 

light. 
Love, that of every woman's heart 
Will have the whole and not a part, 
That is to her, in Nature's plan, 
More than ambition is to man, 
Her light, her life, her very breath, 
With no alternative but death. 
Found me a maiden soft and young 
Just from the convent's cloistered 

school, 
And seated on my lowly stool, 
Attentive while the minstrels sung. 



Gallant, graceful, gentle, tall, 
Fairest, noblest, best of all. 
Was Walter of the Vogelweid ; 
And, whatsoever may betide, 
Still I think of him with pride ! 
His song was of the summer-time. 
The very birds sang in his rhyme ; 
The sunshine, the delicious air, 
The fragrance of the flowers, were 

there ; 
And I grew restless as I heard. 
Restless and buoyant as a bird, 
Down soft, aerial currents sailing. 
O'er blossomed orchards, and fields in 

bloom. 
And- through the momentary gloom 
Of shadows o'er the landscape trailing. 
Yielding and borne I knew not where, 
But feeling resistance unavailing. 

And thus, unnoticed and apart. 
And more by accident than choice, 
I listened to that single voice 
Until the chambers of my heart 
Were filled with it by night and day. 
One night, — it was a night in May, — 
Within the garden, unawares, 



4 



1 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



245 



Under the blossoms in the gloom, 
1 heard it utter my own name 
With protestations and wild prayers ; 
And it rang through me, and became 
Like the archangel's trump of doom. 
Which the soul hears, and must obey ; 
And mine arose as from a tomb. 
My former life now seemed to me 
Such as hereafter death may be. 
When in the great Eternity 
We shall awake and find it day. 

It was a dream, and would not stay ; 
A dream, that in a single night 
Faded and vanished out of sight. 
My father"'s anger followed fast 
This passion, as a freshening blast 
Seeks out and fans the fire, w hose rage 
It may increase, but not assuage. 
And he exclaimed: '"No wandering 

bard 
Shall win thy hand, O Irmingard ! 
For which Prince Henry of Hoheneck 
By messenger and letter sues." 

Gently, but firmly, I replied : 
" Henry of Hoheneck I discard ! 
Never the hand of Irmingard 
Shall lie in his as the hand of a 

bride ! " 
This said I, Walter, for thy sake ; 
This said I, for I could not choose. 
After a pause, my father spake 
In that cold and deliberate tone 
Which turns the hearer into stone, 
And seems itself the act to be 
That follows with such dread cer- 
tainty : 
" This, or the cloister and the veil ! " 
No other words than these he said, 
But they were like a funeral wail ; 
My life was ended, my heart was dead. 

That night from the castle-gate went 

down. 
With silent, slow, and stealthy pace, 
Two shadows, mounted on shadowy 

steeds. 
Taking the narrow path that leads 
Into the forest dense and brown. 



In the leafy darkness of the place. 
One could not distinguish form nor 

face. 
Only a bulk without a shape, 
A darker shadow in the shade ; 
One scarce could say it moved or 

stayed. 
Thus it was we made our escape ! 
A foaming brook, with many a bound, 
Followed us like a playful hound ; 
Then leaped before us, and in the 

hollow 
Paused, and waited for us to follow. 
And seemed impatient, and afraid 
That our tardy flight should be be- 
trayed 
By the sound our horses^ hoof-beats 
made. 

And when we reached the plain below, 
We paused a moment and drew rein 
To look back at the castle again ; 
And we saw the windows all aglow 
With lights, that were passing to and 

fro; 
Our hearts with terror ceased to beat ; 
The brook crept silent to our feet ; 
We knew what most we feared to 

know. 
Then suddenly horns began to blow ; 
And we heard a shout, and a heavy 

tramp. 
And our horses snorted in the damp 
Night-air of the meadows green and 

wide. 
And in a moment, side by side, 
So close, they must have seemed but 

one, 
The shadows across the moonlight 

run. 
And another came, and swept behind. 
Like the shadow of clouds before the 

wind ! 

How I remember that breathless flight 
Across the moors, in the summer 

night ! 
How under our feet the long, white 

road 
Backward like a river flowed, 



246 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



Sweeping with it fences and hedges, 
Whilst farther away, and overhead, 
Paler than I, with fear and dread, 
The moon fled with us, as we fled 
Along the forest's jagged edges ! 

All this I can remember well ; 

But of what afterwards befell 

I nothing farther can recall 

Than a blind, desperate, headlong 

fall ; ^ 
The rest is a blank and darkness all. 
When I awoke out of this swoon, 
The sun was shining, not the moon. 
Making a cross upon the wall 
With the bars of my windows narrow 

and tall ; 
And I prayed to it, as I had been wont 

to pray, 
From early childhood, day by day. 
Each morning, as in bed I lay ! 
I was lying again in my own room ! 
And I thanked God, in my fever and 

pain, 
That those shadows on the midnight 

plain 
Were gone, and could not come again ! 
I struggled no longer with my doom ! 

This happened many years ago. 
I left my father's home to come 
Like Catherine to her martyrdom. 
For bhndly I esteemed it so. 
And when I heard the convent door 
Behind me close, to ope no more, 
I felt it smite me like a blow. 
Through all my limbs a shudder ran. 
And on my bruised spirit fell 
The dampness of my narrow cell 
As night-air on a wounded man, 
Giving intolerable pain. 

But now a better life began. 

I felt the agony decrease 

By slow degrees, then wholly cease. 

Ending in perfect rest and peace ! 

It was not apathy, nor dulness. 

That weighed and pressed upon my 

brain, 
But the same passion I had given 



To earth before, now turned to heaven 
With all its overflowing fulness. 

Alas ! the world is full of peril ! 
The path that runs through the fairest 

meads. 
On the sunniest side of the valley, 

leads 
Into a region bleak and sterile ! 
Alike in the high-born and the lowly. 
The will is feeble, and passion strong. 
We cannot sever right from wrong ; 
Some falsehood mingles with all truth ; 
Nor is it strange the heart of youth 
Should waver and comprehend but 

slowly 
The things that are holy and unholy ! 
But in this sacred and calm retreat, 
We are all well and safely shielded 
From winds that blow, and waves 

that beat, 
From the cold, and rain, and blight- 
ing heat. 
To which the strongest hearts have 

yielded. 
Here we stand as the Virgins Seven, 
For our celestial bridegroom yearn- 
ing; 
Our hearts are lamps forever burning. 
With a steady and unwavering flame. 
Pointing upward, forever the same. 
Steadily upward toward the Heaven ! 

The moon is hidden behind a cloud ; 
A sudden darkness fills the room, 
And thy deep eyes, amid the gloom. 
Shine like jewels in a shroud. 
On the leaves is a sound of falling 

rain ; 
A bird, awakened in its nest. 
Gives a faint twitter of unrest. 
Then smooths its plumes and sleeps 

again. 
No other sounds than these I hear ; 
The hour of midnight must be near. 
Thou art o'erspent with the day's 

fatigue 
Of riding many a dusty league ; 
Sink, then, gently to thy slumber; 
Me so many cares encumber, 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



247 



So many ghosts, and forms of fright, 

Have started from their graves to- 
night. 

They have driven sleep from mine 
eyes away : 

I will go down to the chapel and 
pray. 

V. 

A Covered Bridge at Lucerne. 

PRINCE HENRY. 

God's blessing on the architects who 
build 

The bridges o'er swift rivers and 
abysses 

Before impassable to human feet. 

No less than on the builders of cathe- 
drals, 

Whose massive walls are bridges 
thrown across 

The dark and terrible abyss of Death. 

Well has the name of Pontifex been 
given 

Unto the Church's head, as the chief 
builder 

And architect of the invisible bridge 

That leads from earth to heaven. 

ELSIE. 

How dark it grows ! 
What are these paintings on the walls 
around us ? 

PRINCE HENRY. 

The Dance Macaber ! 



What? 

PRINCE HENRY. 

The Dance of Death ! 

All that go to and fro must look 
upon it, 

Mindful of what they shall be, while 
beneath. 

Among the wooden piles, the turbu- 
lent river 



Rushes, impetuous as the river of life. 
With dimpling eddies, ever green and 

bright, 
Save where the shadow of this bridge 

falls on it. 

ELSIE. 

O, yes ! I see it now ! 

PRINCE HENRY. 

The grim musician 

Leads' all men through the mazes of 
that dance. 

To different sounds in different meas- 
ures moving ; 

Sometimes he plays a lute, sometimes 
a drum. 

To tempt or terrify. 

ELSIE. 

What is this picture ? 

PRINCE HENRY. 

It is a young man singing to a nun. 
Who kneels at her devotions, but in 

kneeling 
Turns round to look at him ; and 

Death, meanwhile. 
Is putting out the candles on the 

altar ! 



Ah, what a pity 't is that she should 

listen 
Unto such songs, when in her orisons 
She might have heard in heaven the 

angels singing ! 

PRINCE HENRY. 

Here he has stolen a jester's cap and 

bells. 
And dances with the Queen. 

ELSIE. 

A foolish jest ! 

PRINCE HENRY. 

And here the heart of the new-wedded 
wife, 



248 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



Coming from church with her beloved 

lord, 
He startles with the rattle of his drum. 



Ah, that is sad ! And yet perhaps 't is 
best 

That she should die, with all the sun- 
shine on her, 

And all the benedictions of the morn- 
ing, 

Before this affluence of golden light 

Shall fade into a cold and clouded 



gray, 
Then into darkness ! 



PRINCE HENRY. 

Under it is written, 
"Nothing but death shall separate 
thee and me ! " 



And what is this, that follows close 
upon it ? 

PRINCE HENRY. 

Death, playing on a dulcimer. Be- 
hind him, 

A poor old woman, with a rosary. 

Follows the sound, and seems to wish 
her feet 

Were swifter to overtake him. Under- 
neath, 

The inscription reads, " Better is 
Death than Life." 



Better is Death than Life ! Ah yes ! 

to thousands 
Death plays upon a dulcimer, and 

sings 
That song of consolation, till the air 
Rings with it, and they cannot choose 

but follow 
Whither he leads. And not the old 

alone. 
But the young also hear it, and are 

still. 



PRINCE HENRY. 

Yes, in their sadder moments. 'T is 
the sound 

Of their own hearts they hear, half 
full of tears. 

Which are like crystal cups, half filled 
with water, 

Responding to the pressure of a finger 

With music sweet and low and melan- 
choly. 

Let us go forward, and no longer 
stay 

In this great picture-gallery of Death ! 

I hate it ! ay, the very thought of it ! 

ELSIE. 

Why is it hateful to you ? 

PRINCE HENRY. 

For the reason 
That life, and all that speaks of life, 

is lovel}^. 
And death, and all that speaks of death, 

is hateful. 



The grave itself is but a covered bridge, » 
Leading from light to light, through a 
brief darkness. 

PRINCE HENRY, einergi7ig frojn the 
bridge. 

I breathe again more freely ! Ah, how | 

pleasant "j 

To come once more into the light of 

day. 
Out of that shadow of death! To 

hear again 
The hoof-beats of our horses on firm 

ground. 
And not upon those hollow planks, 

resounding 
With a sepulchral echo, like the clods 
On coffins in a churchyard ! Yonder 

lies 
The Lake of the Four Forest-Towns, 

apparelled 
In light, and lingering, like a village 

maiden. 



I 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



Hid in the bosom of her nativ^e moun- 
tains, 
Then pouring all her life into another's, 
Changing her name and being ! Over- 
head, 
Shaking his cloudy tresses loose in air, 
Rises Pilatus, with his windy pines. 
They pass on. 

The Devil's Bridge. 

Prince Henry and Elsie crossing, 
with attendants. 



This bridge is called the Devil's 

Bridge. 
With a single arch, from ridge to ridge, 
It leaps across the terrible chasm 
Yawning beneath us, black and deep. 
As if, in some convulsive spasm. 
The summits of the hills had cracked, 
And made a road for the cataract. 
That raves and rages down the steep. 

LUCIFER, 7-inder the bridge. 
Ha! ha! 



Never any bridge but this 

Could stand across the wild abyss ; 

All the rest, of wood or stone, 

.By the Devil's hand were overthrown. 

He toppled crags from the precipice. 

And whatsoe'er was built by day 

In the night was swept away ; 

None could stand but this alone. 

LUCIFER, under the bridge. 
Ha! ha! 



I showed you in the valley a boulder 
Marked with the imprint of his shoul- 
der ; 
As he was bearing it up this way, 
A peasant, passing, cried, " Herr Je ! " 
And the Devil dropped it in his fright, 
And vanished suddenly out of sight ! 



LUCIFER, under the bridge. 
Ha ! ha ! 

GUIDE. 

Abbot Giraldus of Einsiedel, 
For pilgrims on their way to Rome, 
Built this at last, with a single arch, 
Under which, on its endless march, 
Runs the river, white with foam. 
Like a thread through the eye of a 

needle. 
And the Devil promised to let it stand, 
Under compact and condition 
That the first living thing which 

crossed 
Should be surrendered into his hand, 
And be beyond redemption lost. 

LUCIFER, tinder the bridge. 
Ha ! ha ! perdition ! 



At length, the bridge being all com- 
pleted, 
The Abbot, standing at its head, 
Threw across it a loaf of bread, 
Which a hungry dog sprang after. 
And the rocks reechoed with peals of 

laughter 
To see the Devil thus defeated ! 
They pass on. 

LUCIFER, under the bridge. 

Ha ! ha ! defeated ! 

For journeys and for crimes like this 

I let the bridge stand o'er the abyss ! 

The St. Gothard Pass, 
prince henry. 

This is the highest point. Two ways 

the rivers 
Leap down to different seas, and as 

they roll 
Grow deep and still, and their majestic 

presence 
Becomes a benefaction to the towns 
They visit, wandering silently among 

them, 



250 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



Like patriarchs old among their shin- 
ing tents. 

ELSIE. 

How bleak and bare it is ! Nothing 

but mosses 
Grow on these rocks. 

PRINCE HENRY. 

Yet are they not forgotten ; 
Beneficent Nature sends the mists to 
feed them. 



See yonder little cloud, that, borne 

aloft 
So tenderly by the wind, floats fast 

away 
Over the snowy peaks ! It seems to 

me 
The body of St. Catherine, borne by 

angels ! 

PRINCE HENRY. 

Thou art St. Catherine, and invisible 

angels 
Bear thee across these chasms and 

precipices, 
Lest thou shouldst dash thy feet 

against a stone. 



Would I were borne unto my grave, 

as she was. 
Upon angelic shoulders ! Even now 
I seem uplifted by them, light as air ! 
What sound is that ? 

PRINCE HENRY. 

The tumbling avalanches ! 



ELSIE. 

How awful, yet how beautiful ! 

PRINCE HENRY. 

These are 
The voices of the mountains ! Thus 
they ope 



Their snowy lips, and speak unto each 

other. 
In the primeval language, lost to man. 



What land is this that spreads itself 
beneath us ? 

PRINCE HENRY. 

Italy ! Italy ! 

ELSIE. 

Land of the Madonna ! 
How beautiful it is ! It seems a garden 
Of Paradise ! 

PRINCE HENRY. 

Nay, of Gethsemane 

To thee and me, of passion and of 
prayer ! 

Yet once of Paradise. Long years 
ago 

I wandered as a youth among its 
bowers. 

And never from my heart has faded 
quite 

Its memory, that, like a summer sun- 
set, 

Encircles with a ring of purple light 

All the horizon of my youth. 

GUIDE. 

O friends ! 
The days are short, the way before us 

long; 
We must not linger, if we think to 

reach 
The inn at Belinzona before vespers ! 
They pass on. 



At THE Foot of the Alps. 
A halt under the trees at noon. 

PRINCE HENRY. 

Here let us pause a moment in the ' 
trembling 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



251 



Shadow and sunshine of the road-side 

trees, 
And, our tired horses in a group 

assembling, 
Inhale long draughts of this delicious 

breeze. 
Our fleeter steeds have distanced our 

attendants, 
They lag behind us with a slower 

pace ; 
We will await them under the green 

pendants 
Of the great willows in this shady 

place. 
Ho, Barbarossa ! how thy mottled 

haunches 
Sweat with this canter over hill and 

glade ! 
Stand still, and let these overhanging 

branches 
Fan thy hot sides and comfort thee 

with shade ! 



What a delightful landscape spreads 

before us. 
Marked with a whitewashed cottage 

here and there ! 
And, in luxuriant garlands drooping 

o"'er us, 
Blossoms of grape-vines scent the 

sunny air. 

PRINCE HENRY. 

Hark ! what sweet sounds are those, 

whose accents holy 
Fill the warm noon with music sad 

and sweet ! 



It is a band of pilgrims, moving 

slowly 
On their long journey, with uncovered 

feet. 

PILGRIMS, chauniing the Hyitm of 
St. Hildeberi. 

Me receptet Sion ilia, 
Sion David, urbs tranquilla, 



Cujus faber auctor lucis, 
Cujus portae lignum crucis, 
Cujus claves lingua Petri, 
Cujus cives semper laeti, 
Cujus muri lapis vivus, 
Cujus custos Rex festivus ! 

LUCIFER, as a Friar m the procession. 

Here am I, too, in the pious band, 
In the garb of a barefooted Carmelite 

dressed ! 
The soles of my feet are as hard and 

tanned 
As the conscience of old Pope Hilde- 

brand. 
The Holy Satan, who made the wives 
Of the bishops lead such shameful 

lives. 
All day long I beat my breast. 
And chaunt with a most particular 

zest 
The Latin hymns, which I understand 
Quite as well, I think, as the rest. 
And at night such lodging in barns 

and sheds, 
Such a hurly-burly in country inns. 
Such a clatter of tongues in empty 

heads, 
Such a helter-skelter of prayers and 

sins ! 
Of all the contrivances of the time 
For sowing broadcast the seeds of 

crime. 
There is none so pleasing to me and 

mine 
As a pilgrimage to some far-off shrine ! 

PRINCE HENRY. 

If from the outward man we judge the 

inner 
And cleanliness is godliness, I fear 
A hopeless reprobate, a hardened 

sinner, 
Must be that Carmelite now passing 

near. 

LUCIFER. 

There is my German Prince again, 
Thus far on his journey to Salern, 



252 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



And the lovesick girl, whose heated 

brain 
Is sowing the cloud to reap the rain ; 
But it 's a long road that has no turn ! 
Let them quietly hold their way, 
I have also a part in the play. 
But first I must act to my heart's con- 
tent 
This mummery and this merriment, 
And drive this motley flock of sheep 
Into the fold, where drink and sleep 
The jolly old friars of Benevent. 
Of a truth, it often provokes me to 

laugh 
To see these beggars hobble along, 
Lamed and maimed, and fed upon 

chaff, 
Chaunting their wonderful pifFand paff. 
And, to make up for not understand- 
ing the song. 
Singing it fiercely, and wild, and 

strong ! 
Were it not for my magic garters and 

staff. 
And the goblets of goodly wine I quaflf. 
And the mischief I make in the idle 

throng, 
I should not continue the business 
long. 

PILGRIMS, chaunting. 

In hac urbe, lux solennis, 
Ver aeternum, pax perennis ; 
In hac odor implens caelos. 
In hac semper festum melos ! 

PRINCE HENRY. 

Do you observe that monk among 

the train, 
Who pours from his great throat the 

roaring bass. 
As a cathedral spout pours out the 

rain. 
And this way turns his rubicund, 

round face ? 

ELSIE. 

It is the same who, on the Strasburg 
square, 



Preached to the people in the open 



PRINCE HENRY. 

And he has crossed o'er mountain, 

field, and fell. 
On that good steed, that seems to 

bear him well, 
The hackney of the Friars of Orders 

Gray, 
His own stout legs ! He, too, was in 

the play. 
Both as King Herod and Ben Israel. 
Good morrow, Friar ! 

FRIAR CUTHBERT. 

Good morrow, noble Sir ! 

PRINCE HENRY. 

I speak in German, for, unless I err, 
You are a German. 

FRIAR CUTHBERT. 

I cannot gainsay you. 
But by what instinct, or what secret 

sign, 
Meeting me here, do you straightway 

divine 
That northward of the Alps my 

country lies ? 

PRINCE HENRY. 

Your accent, like St. Peter's, would 

betray you, 
Did not your yellow beard and your 

blue eyes. 
Moreover, we have seen your face 

before. 
And heard you preach at the Cathedral 

door 
On Easter Sunday, in the Strasburg 

square. 
We were among the crowd that 

gathered there. 
And saw you play the Rabbi with 

great skill. 
As if, by leaning o'er so many years 
To walk with little children, your own 

will 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



253 



Had caught a childish attitude from 

theirs, 
A kind of stooping in its form and 

gait, 
And could no longer stand erect and 

straight. 
Whence come you now ? 

FRIAR CUTHBERT. 

From the old monastery 
Of Hirschau, in the forest; being 

sent 
Upon a pilgrimage to Benevent, 
To see the image of the Virgin Mary, 
That moves its holy eyes, and some- 
times speaks. 
And lets the piteous tears run down 

its cheeks, 
To touch the hearts of the impenitent. 

PRINCE HENRY. 

O, had I faith, as in the days gone 

by, 
That knew no doubt, and feared no 

mystery ! 

LUCIFER, at a dista7ice. 
Ho, Cuthbert ! Friar Cuthbert ! 

FRIAR CUTHBERT. 

Farewell, Prince ! 
I cannot stay to argue and convince. 

PRINCE HENRY. 

This is indeed the blessed Mary's 
land, 

Virgin and Mother of our dear Re- 
deemer ! 

All hearts are touched and softened 
at her name ; 

Alike the bandit, with the bloody 
hand. 

The priest, the prince, the scholar, 
and the peasant. 

The man of deeds, the visionary 
dreamer. 

Pay homage to her as one ever pres- 
ent ! 



And even as children, who have much 
offended 

A too indulgent father, in great shame, 

Penitent, and yet not daring unat- 
tended 

To go into his presence, at the gate 

Speak with their sister, and confiding 
wait 

Till she goes in before and inter- 
cedes ; 

So men, repenting of their evil deeds,. 

And yet not venturing rashly to draw 
near 

With their requests an angry father's 
ear. 

Offer to her their prayers and their 
confession. 

And she for them in heaven makes 
intercession. 

And if our Faith had given us noth- 
ing more 

Than this example of all womanhood, 

So mild, so merciful, so strong, so 
good. 

So patient, peaceful, loyal, loving, 
pure, 

This were enough to prove it higher 
and truer 

Than all the creeds the world had 
known before. 

PILGRIMS, chatintijig afar off. 

Urbs coelestis, urbs beata, 
Supra petram collocata, 
Urbs in portu satis tuto 
De longinquo te saluto, 
Te saluto, te suspiro, 
Te affecto, te requiro ! 

The Inn at Genoa. 

A terrace overlooking the sea. Night. 
PRINCE henry. 

It is the sea, it is the sea, 
In all its vague immensity, 
Fading and darkening in the dis- 
tance ! 
Silent, majestical, and slow, 
The white ships haunt it to and fro, 



254 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



With all their ghostly sails unfurled, 
As phantoms from another world 
Haunt the dim confines of existence ! 
But ah ! how few can comprehend 
Their signals, or to what good end 
From land to land they come and go ! 
Upon a sea more vast and dark 
The spirits of the dead embark, 
All voyaging to unknown coasts. 
We wave our farewells from the shore, 
And they depart, and come no more, 
Or come as phantoms and as ghosts. 

Above the darksome sea of death 
Looms the great life that is to be, 
A land of cloud and mystery, 
A dim mirage, with shapes of men 
Long dead, and passed beyond our 

ken. 
Awe-struck we gaze, and hold our 

breath 
Till the fair pageant vanisheth. 
Leaving us in perplexity. 
And doubtful whether it has been 
A vision of the world unseen. 
Or a bright image of our own 
Against the sky in vapors thrown. 

LUCIFER, singing from the sea. 

Thou didst not make it, thou canst 

not mend it, 
But thou hast the power to end it ! 
The sea is silent, the sea is discreet, 
Deep it lies at thy very feet ; 
There is no confessor like unto Death ! 
Thou canst not see him, but he is 

near; 
Thou needest not whisper above thy 

breath, 
And he will hear ; 
He will answer the questions, 
The vague surmises and suggestions. 
That fill thy soul with doubt and fear ! 

PRINCE HENRY. 

The fisherman, who lies afloat. 
With shadowy sail, in yonder boat, 
Is singing softly to the Night ! 
But do I comprehend aright 



The meaning of the words he sung 
So sweetly in his native tongue ? 
Ah, yes ! the sea is still and deep. 
All things within its bosom sleep ! 
A single step, and all is o'er : 
A plunge, a bubble, and no more ; 
And thou, dear Elsie, wilt be free 
From martyrdom and agony. 

ELSIE, coming fr 0711 her chamber upon 
the terrace. 

The night is calm and cloudless, 
And still as still can be. 
And the stars come forth to listen 
To the music of the sea. 
They gather, and gather, and gather, 
Until they crowd the sky. 
And listen, in breathless silence, 
To the solemn litany. 
It begins in rocky caverns, 
As a voice that chaunts alone 
To the pedals of the organ 
In monotonous undertone; 
And anon from shelving beaches, 
And shallow sands beyond. 
In snow-white robes uprising 
The ghostly choirs respond. 
And sadly and unceasing 
The mournful voice sings on. 
And the snow-white choirs still an- 
swer , 
Christe eleison ! 

PRINCE HENRY. 

Angel of God ! thy finer sense per- 
ceives 

Celestial and perpetual harmonies ! 

Thy purer soul, that trembles and 
believes. 

Hears the archangel's trumpet in the 
breeze. 

And where the forest rolls, or ocean 
heaves, 

Cecilia's organ sounding in the seas. 

And tongues of prophets speaking in 
the leaves. 

But I hear discord only and despair. 

And whispers as of demons in the 
air ! 



1 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



255 



At Sea. 

il padrone. 

The wind upon our quarter lies, 
And on before the freshening gale, 
That fills the snow-white lateen sail, 
Swiftly our light felucca flies. 
Around, the billows burst and foam ; 
They lift her o'er the sunken rock. 
They beat her sides with many a 

shock, 
And then upon their flowing dome 
They poise her, like a weathercock ! 
Between us and the western skies 
The hills of Corsica arise ; 
Eastward, in yonder long, blue line, 
The summits of the Apennine, 
And southward, and still far away, 
Salerno, on its sunny bay. 
You cannot see it, where it lies. 

PRINCE henry. 

Ah, would that never more mine eyes 
Might see its towers by night or day ! 

ELSIE. 

Behind us, dark and awfully. 
There comes a cloud out of the sea. 
That bears the form of a hunted deer. 
With hide of brown, and hoofs of 

black. 
And antlers laid upon its back. 
And fleeing fast and wild with fear, 
As if the hounds were on its track ! 

prince HENRY. 

Lo ! while we gaze, it breaks and 

falls 
In shapeless masses like the walls 
Of a burnt city. Broad and red 
The fires of the descending sun 
Glare through the windows, and over- 
head, 
Athwart the vapors, dense and dun, 
Long shafts of silvery light arise. 
Like rafters that support the skies ! 

ELSIE. 

See ! from its summit the lurid levin 
Flashes downward without warning, 



As Lucifer, son of the morning, 
Fell from the battlements of heaven ! 

IL PADRONE. 

I must entreat you, friends, below ! 
The angry storm begins to blow. 
For the weather changes with the 

moon. 
All this morning, until noon. 
We had bafliing winds, and sudden 

flaws 
Struck the sea with their cat's-paws. 
Only a little hour ago 
I was whistling to Saint Antonio 
For a capful of wind to fill our sail. 
And instead of a breeze he has sent 

a gale. 
Last night I saw Saint Elmo's stars, 
With their glimmering lanterns, all 

at play 
On the tops of the masts and the tips 

of the spars. 
And I knew we should have foul 

weather to-day. 
Ch€erly, my hearties ! yo heave ho ! 
Brail up the mainsail, and let her go 
As the winds will and Saint Antonio ! 

Do you see that Livornese felucca. 
That vessel to the windward yonder, 
Running with her gunwale under ? 
I was looking when the wind o'er- 

took her. 
She had all sail set, and the only 

wonder 
Is, that at once the strength of the 

blast 
Did not carry away her mast. 
She is a galley of the Gran Duca, 
That, through the fear of the Alge- 

rines, 
Convoys those lazy brigantines. 
Laden with wine and ofl from Lucca. 
Now all is ready, high and low ; 
Blow, blow, good Saint Antonio ! 

Ha ! that is the first dash of the 

rain. 
With a sprinkle of spray above the 

rails, 



256 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



Just enough to moisten our sails, 
And make them ready for the strain. 
See how she leap-, as the blasts o'er- 

take her, 
And speeds away with a bone in her 

mouth ! 
Now keep her head toward the south, 
And there is no danger of bank or 

breaker. 
With the breeze behind us, on we go ; 
Not too much, good Saint Antonio ! 



VL 



The School of Salerno. 

A travelling Scholastic affixi?ig his 
Thesis to the gate of the College. 

SCHOLASTIC. 

There, that is my gauntlet, my 

banner, my shield, 
Hung up as a challenge to all the 

tield! 
One hundred and twenty-five propo- 
sitions, 
Which I will maintain with the sword 

of the tongue 
Against all disputants, old and young. 
Let us see if doctors or dialecticians 
Will dare to dispute my definitions. 
Or attack any one of my learned 

theses. 
Here stand I ; the end shall be as 

God pleases. 
I thmk I have proved, by profound 

researches, 
The error of all those doctrines so 

vicious 
Of the old Areopagite Dionysius, 
That are making such terrible work 

in the churches. 
By Michael the Stammerer sent from 

the East, 
And done into Latin by that Scottish 

beast, 
Erigena Johannes, who dares to 

maintain, 



In the face of the truth, the error 
infernal, 

That the universe is and must be 
eternal ; 

At first laying down, as a fact funda- 
mental, 

That nothing with God can be acci- 
dental ; 

Then asserting that God before the 
creation 

Could not have existed, because it is 
plain 

That, had he existed, he would have 
created ; 

Which is begging the question that 
should be debated, 

And moveth me less to anger than 
laughter. 

All nature, he holds, is a respiration 

Of the Spirit of God, who, in breath- 
ing, hereafter 

Will inhale it into his bosom again. 

So that nothing but God alone will 
remain. 

And therein he contradicteth himself: 

F'or he opens the whole discussion by 
stating, 

That God can only exist in creating. 

That question I think 1 have laid cin 
the shelf ! 

He goes out. Two Doctors come in 
disp2iting, ajtd followed by pupils. 

DOCTOR SERAFLNO. 

I, with the Doctor Seraphic, maintain. 
That a word which is only conceived 

in the brain 
Is a type of eternal Generation ; 
The spoken word is the Incarnation. 

DOCTOR CHERUBINO. 

What do I care for the Doctor Se- 
raphic^ 
With all his wordy chaffer and traffic ? 

DOCTOR SERAFINO. 

You make but a paltry show of resist- 
ance ; 
Universals have no real existence ! 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



257 



DOCTOR CHERUBINO. 

Your words are but idle and empty 

chatter ; 
Ideas are eternally joined to matter ! 

DOCTOR SERAFINO. 

May the Lord have mercy on your 

position, 
You wretched, wrangling culler of 

herbs ! 

DOCTOR CHERUBINO. 

May he send your soul to eternal per- 
dition, 

For your Treatise on the Irregular 
Verbs ! 

They rush out fighting. Two Schol- 
ars cojne ill. 

FIRST SCHOLAR. 

Monte Cassino, then, is your College. 
What think you of ours here at 
Salern ? 

SECOND SCHOLAR. 

To tell the truth, I arrived so lately, 
I hardly yet have had time to discern. 
So much, at least, I am bound to 

acknowledge : 
The air seems healthy, the buildings 

stately, 
And on the whole I like it greatly. 

FIRST SCHOLAR. 

Yes, the air is sweet ; the Calabrian 
hills 

Send us down puffs of mountain air ; 

And in summer-time the sea-breeze 
fills 

With its coolness cloister, and court, 
and square. 

Then at every season of the year 

There are crowds of guests and trav- 
ellers here ; 

Pilgrims, and mendicant friars, and 
traders 

From the Levant, with figs and wine. 



And bands of wounded and sick Cru- 
saders, 
Coming back from Palestine. 

SECOND SCHOLAR. 

And what are the studies you pursue ? 
What is the course you here go 
through 1 

FIRST SCHOLAR. 

The first three years of the college 

course 
Are given to Logic alone, as the source 
Of all that is noble, and wise, and true. 

SECOND SCHOLAR. 

That seems rather strange, I must 
confess, 

In a Medical School ; yet, neverthe- 
less, 

You doubtless have reasons for that. 

FIRST SCHOLAR. 

O, yes ! 
For none but a clever dialectician 
Can hope to become a great phy- 
sician ; 
That has been settled long ago. 
Logic makes an important part 
Of the mystery of the healing art ; 
For without it how could you hope to 

show 
That nobody knows so much as you 

know .'* 
After this there are five years more 
Devoted wholly to medicine, 
With lectures on chirurgical lore. 
And dissections of the bodies of swine, 
As likest the human form divine. 

SECOND SCHOLAR. 

What are the books now most in 
vogue ? 

FIRST SCHOLAR. 

Quite an extensive catalogue ; 
Mostly, however, books of our own ; 
As Gariopontus' Passionarius, 



258 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



And the writings of Matthew Pla- 

tearius ; 
And a volume universally known 
As the Regimen of the School of 

Salern, 
For Robert of Normandy written in 

terse 
And very elegant Latin verse. 
Each of these writings has its turn. 
And when at length we have finished 

these, 
Then comes the struggle for degrees, 
With all the oldest and ablest critics ; 
The public thesis and disputation, 
Question, and answer, and explanation 
Of a passage out of Hippocrates, 
Or Aristotle's Analytics. 
There the triumphant Magister stands ! 
A bookis solemnly placed in his hands. 
On which he swears to follow the rule 
And ancient forms of the good old 

School ; 
To report if any confectionarius 
Mingles his drugs with matters various. 
And to visit his patients twice a day. 
And once in the night, if they live in 

town, 
And if they are poor, to take no pay. 
Having faithfully promised these. 
His head is crowned with a laurel 

crown ; 
A kiss on his cheek, a ring on his 

hand. 
The Magister Artium et Physices 
Goes forth from the school like a lord 

of the land. 
And now, as we have the whole morn- 
ing before us, 
Let us go in, if you make no objection. 
And listen awhile to a learned prelec- 
tion 
On Marcus Aurelius Cassiodorus. 
They go in. Enter Lucifer as a 
Doctor. 



This is the great School of Salern ! 
A land of wrangling and of quarrels, 
Of brains that seethe and hearts that 
burn, 



Where every emulous scholar hears, 
In every breath that comes to his 

ears. 
The rustling of another's laurels ! 
The air of the place is called salu- 
brious ; 
The neighborhood of Vesuvius lends 

it 
An odor volcanic, that rather mends 

it, 
And the buildings have an aspect 

lugubrious. 
That inspires a feeling of awe and 

terror 
Into the heart of the beholder, 
And befits such an ancient homestead 

of error, 
Where the old falsehoods moulder 

and smoulder, 
And yearly by many hundred hands 
Are carried away, in the zeal of youth. 
And sown like tares in the field of 

truth. 
To blossom and ripen in other lands. 

What have we here, afiixed to the 
gate ? 

The challenge of some scholastic 
wight. 

Who wishes to hold a public debate 

On sundry questions wrong or right ! 

Ah, now this is my great delight ! 

For I have often observed of late 

That such discussions end in a fight. 

Let us see what the learned wag main- 
tains 

With such a prodigal waste of brains. 

Reads. 

"Whether angels in moving from 

place to place 
Pass through the intermediate space. 
Whether God himself is the author of 

evil, 
Or whether that is the work of the 

Devil. 
When, where, and wherefore Lucifer 

fell. 
And whether he now is chained in 

hell." 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



259 



I think I can answer that question 

well ! 
So long as the boastful human mind 
Consents in such mills as this to 

grind, 
I sit very firmly upon my throne ! 
Of a truth it almost makes me laugh, 
To see men leaving the golden grain 
To gather in piles the pitiful chaff 
That old Peter Lombard thrashed 

with his brain, 
To have it caught up and tossed again 
On the horns of the Dumb Ox of 

Cologne ! 

But my guests approach ! there is in 

the air 
A fragrance, like that of the Beautiful 

Garden 
Of Paradise, in the days that were ! 
An odor of innocence, and of prayer. 
And of love, and faith that never 

fails. 
Such as the fresh young heart exhales 
Before it begins to wither and harden ! 
I cannot breathe such an atmosphere ! 
My soul is filled with a nameless fear, 
That, after all my trouble and pain, 
After all my restless endeavor. 
The youngest, fairest soul of the twain, 
The most ethereal, most divine. 
Will escape from my hands forever 

and ever, 
* But the other is already mine ! 
Let him live to corrupt his race. 
Breathing among them, with every 

breath. 
Weakness, selfishness, and the base 
And pusillanimous fear of death. 
I know his nature, and I know 
That of all who in my ministry 
Wander the great earth to and fro. 
And on my errands come and go. 
The safest and subtlest are such as he. 

Enter Prince Henry and Elsie, 
with attendants . 

PRINCE HENRY. 

Can you direct us to Friar Angelo ? 



LUCIFER. 

He stands before you. 

PRINCE HENRY. 

Then you know our purpose. 
I am Prince Henry of Hoheneck, and 

this 
The maiden that I spake of in my 

letters. 



It is a very grave and solemn busi- 
ness ! 

We must not be precipitate. Does 
she 

Without compulsion, of her own free 
will. 

Consent to this ? 

PRINCE HENRY. 

Against all opposition, 
Against all prayers, entreaties, pro- 
testations. 
She will not be persuaded. 



That is strange ! 
Have you thought well of it ? 



I come not here 
To argue, but to die. Your business 

is not 
To question, but to kill me. I am 

ready. 
I am impatient to be gone from here 
Ere any thoughts of earth disturb 

again 
The spirit of tranquillity within me. 

PRINCE HENRY. 

Would I had not come here ! Would 

I were dead, 
And thou wert in thy cottage in the 

forest. 
And hadst not known me ! Why 

have I done this ? 
Let me go back and die. 



26o 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



It cannot be ; 

Not if these cold, flat stones on which 
we tread 

Were coulters heated white, and yon- 
der gateway 

Flamed like a furnace with a seven- 
fold heat. 

I must fulfil my purpose. 

PRINCE HENRY. 

I forbid it ! 
Not one step farther. For 1 only 

meant 
To put thus far thy courage to the 

proof. 
It is enough. I, too, have courage to 

die, 
For thou hast taught me ! 

ELSIE. 

O my Prince ! remember 
Your promises. Let me fulfil my 

errand. 
You do not look on life and death as 

I do. 
There are two angels, that attend 

unseen 
Each one of us, and in great books 

record 
Our good and evil deeds. He who 

writes down 
The good ones, after ' every action 

closes 
His volume, and ascends with it to 

God. 
The other keeps his dreadful day- 
book open 
Till sunset, that we may repent ; which 

doing, 
The record of the action fades away, 
And leaves a line of white across the 

page. 
Now if my act be good, as I believe, 
It cannot be recalled. It is already 
Sealed up in heaven, as a good deed 

accomplished. 
The rest is yours. Why wait you ? 

1 am ready. 



To her attendants. 

Weep not, my friends ! rather rejoice 

with me. 
I shall not feel the pain, but shall be 

gone. 
And you will have another friend in 

heaven. 
Then start not at the creaking of the 

door 
Through which I pass. I see what 

lies beyond it. 

To Prince Henry. 

And you, O Prince ! bear back my 

benison 
Unto my father's house, and all within 

it. 
This morning in the church I prayed 

for them. 
After confession, after absolution. 
When my whole soul was white, I 

prayed for them. 
God will take care of them, they need 

me not. 
And in your life let my remembrance 

linger, 
As something not to trouble and dis- 
turb it. 
But to complete it, adding life to life. 
And if at times beside the evening 

fire 
You see my face among the other 

faces. 
Let it not be regarded as a ghost 
That haunts your house, but as a 

guest that loves you. 
Nay, even as one of your own family, 
Without whose presence there were 

something wanting. 
I have no more to say. Let us go in. 

prince henry. 

P^riar Angelo ! I charge you on your 

life, 
Believe not what she says, for she is 

mad. 
And comes here not to die, but to be 

healed. 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



261 



ELSIE. 

Alas ! Prince Henry ! 



Come with me ; this way. 

Elsie goes in ivith Lucifer, who 
tlu'usts Prince Henry back and 
closes the door. 

prince henry. 

Gone ! and the light of all my life 

gone with her ! 
A sudden darkness falls upon the 

world ! 
O, what a vile and abject thing am I, 
That purchase length of days at such 

a cost ! 
Not by her death alone, but by the 

death 
Of all that's good and true and noble 

in me ! 
All manhood, excellence, and self- 
respect, 
All love, and faith, and hope, and 

heart are dead ! 
All my divine nobility of nature 
By this one act is forfeited forever. 
I am a Prince in nothing but in name ! 

To the attendants. 
Why did you let this horrible deed 

be done ? 
Why did you not lay hold on her, 

and keep her 
From self- destruction ? Angelo ! 

murderer ! 
Struggles at the door., bid cannot open 
it. 

ELSIE within. 
Farewell, dear Prince ! farewell ! 

prince henry. 

Unbar the door ! 



It is too late ! 



prince henry. 

It shall not be too late ! 
They burst the door open and rush 
in. 

The Cottage in the Odenwald. 

Ursula, spinning. Summer after- 
noon. A table spread, 

URSULA. 

I HAVE marked it well, — it must be 

true, — 
Death never takes one alone, but 

two ! 
Whenever he enters in at a door. 
Under roof of gold or roof of thatch, 
He always leaves it upon the latch, 
And comes again ere the year is o'er. 
Never one of a household only ! 
Perhaps it is a mercy of God, 
Lest the dead there under the sod, 
In the land of strangers, should be 

lonely ! 
Ah me ! I think I am lonelier here ! 
It is hard to go, — but harder to stay ! 
Were it not for the children, I should 

pray 
That Death would take me within the 

year ! 
And Gottlieb! — he is at work all 

day, 
In the sunny field, or the forest murk, 
But I know that his thoughts are far 

away, 
I know that his heart is not in his 

work ! 
And when he comes home to me at 

night 
He is not cheery, but sits and sighs, 
And I see the great tears in his eyes, 
And try to be cheerful for his sake. 
Only the children's hearts are light. 
Mine is weary, and ready to break. 
God help us ! I hope we have done 

right ; 
We thought we were acting for the 

best ! 
Looking through the open door. 



262 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



Who is it coming under the trees ? 
A man, in the Prince's livery dressed ! 
He looks about him with doubtful 

face, 
As if uncertain of the place. 
He stops at the beehives ; — now he 

sees 
The garden gate ; — he is going past! 
Can he be afraid of the bees ? 
No ; he is coming in at last ! 
He fills my heart with strange alarm ! 
Enter a Forester. 

FORESTER. 

Ls this the tenant Gottlieb^s farm ? 

URSULA. 

This is his farm, and I his wife. 
Pray sit. What may vour business 
be? 

FORESTER. 

News from the Prince ! 

URSULA. 

Of death or life ? 

FORESTER. 

You put your questions eagerly ! 



Answer me, then ! How is the 
Prince ? 

FORESTER. 

I left him only two hours since 
Homeward returning down the river, 
As strong and well as if God, the 

Giver, 
Had given him back his youth again. 

URSULA, despairing. 
Then, Elsie, my poor child, is dead ! 

FORESTER. 

That, rrty good woman, I have not 
said. 



Don't cross the bridge till you come 

to it. 
Is a proverb old, and of excellent wit. 

URSULA. 

Keep me no longer in this pain ! 

FORESTER. 

It is true your daughter is no more ; — 
That is, the peasant she was before. 



Alas ! I am simple and lowly bred, 
I am poor, distracted, and forlorn. 
And it is not well that you of the 

court 
Should mock me thus, and make a 

sport 
Of a joyless mother whose child is 

dead. 
For you, too, were of mother born ! 

FORESTER. 

Your daughter lives, and the Prince 

is well ! 
You will learn ere long how it all be- 
fell. 
Her heart for a moment never failed; 
But when they reached Salerno's 

gate, 
The Prince's nobler self prevailed, 
And saved her for a nobler fate. 
And he was healed, in his despair, 
By the touch of St. Matthew's sacred 

bones ; 
Though I think the long ride in the 

open air, 
That pilgrimage over stocks and 

stones. 
In the miracle must come in for a 

share ! 

URSULA. 

Virgin ! who lovest the poor and 

lowly. 
If the loud cry of a mother's heart 
Can ever ascend to where thou art. 
Into thy blessed hands and holy 
Receive my prayer of praise and 

thanksgiving. 



i 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



263 



Let the hands that bore our Saviour 
bear it 

Into the awful presence of God ; 

For thy feet with holiness are shod, 

And if thou bearest it he will hear it. 

Our child who was dead again is liv- 
ing ! 

FORESTER. 

I did not tell you she was dead ; 

If you thought so 't was no fault of 

mine ; 
At this very moment, while I speak, 
They are sailing homeward down the 

Rhine, 
In a splendid barge, with golden 

prow. 
And decked with banners white and 

red 
As the colors on your daughter's 

cheek. 
They call her the Lady Alicia now ; 
For the Prince in Salerno made a vow 
That Elsie only would he wed. 

URSULA. 

Jesu Maria ! what a change ! 

All seems to me so weird and strange ! 

FORESTER. 

I saw her standing on the deck, 
Beneath an awning cool and shady ; 
Her cap of velvet could not hold 
The tresses of her hair of gold, 
That flowed and floated like the 

stream. 
And fell in masses down her neck. 
As fair and lovely did she seem 
As in a story or a dream 
Some beautiful and foreign lady. 
And the Prince looked so grand and 

proud, 
And waved his hand thus to the crowd 
That gazed and shouted from the 

shore. 
All down the river, long and loud. 



We shall behold our child once more ; 
She is not dead !. She is not dead ! 



God, listening, must have overheard 
The prayers that, without sound or 

word. 
Our hearts in secrecy have said ! 
O, bring me to her ; for mine eyes 
Are hungry to behold her face ; 
My very soul within me cries ; 
My very hands seem to caress her, 
To see her, gaze at her, and bless her ; 
Dear Elsie, child of God and grace ! 

Goes 02it toward the garden. 



There goes the good woman out of 

her head ; 
And Gottlieb's supper is waiting here ; 
A very capacious flagon &f beer, 
And a very portentous loaf of bread. 
One would say his grief did not much 

oppress him. 
Here 's to the health of the Prince, 

God bless him ! 

He drinks. 
Ha ! it buzzes and stings like a hornet ! 
And what a scene there, through the 

door ! 
The forest behind and the garden 

before. 
And midway an old man of threescore, 
With a wife and children that caress 

him. 
Let me try still further to cheer and 

adorn it 
With a merry, echoing blast of my 

cornet ! 
Goes out blowing his horn. 

The Castle of Vautsberg on the 
Rhine. 

Prince Henry aTid Elsie standi7ig 
on the terrace at evening. The 
sound of bells heard from a dis- 
tance. 

prince henry. 

We are alone. The wedding guests 
Ride down the hill, with plumes and 
cloaks, 



264 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



And the descending dark invests 
The Niederwaldj and all the nests 
Among its hoar and haunted oaks. 

ELSIE. 

What bells are those, that ring so slow, 
So mellow, musical, and low ? 

PRINCE HENRY. 

They are the bells of Geisenheim, 
That with their melancholy chime 
Ring out the curfew of the sun. 



Listen, beloved. 

PRINCE HENRY. 

They are done ! 
Dear Elsie ! many years ago 
Those same soft bells at eventide 
Rang in the ears of Charlemagne, 
As, seated by Fastrada's side 
At Ingelheim, in all his pride 
He heard their sound with secret pain. 



Their voices only speak to me 
Of peace and deep tranquillity. 
And endless confidence in thee ! 

PRINCE HENRY. 

Thou knowest the story of her ring, 
How, w^hen the court went back to Aix, 
Fastrada died ; and how the king 
Sat watching by her night and day, 
Till into one of the blue lakes. 
Which water that delicious land. 
They cast the ring, drawn from her 

hand ; 
And the great monarch sat serene 
And sad beside the fated shore. 
Nor left the land forever more. 

ELSIE. 

That was true love. 

PRINCE HENRY. 

For him the queen 
Ne'er did what thou hast done for me. 



Wilt thou as fond and faithful be ? 
Wilt thou so love me after death ? 

PRINCE HENRY. 

In life's delight, in death's dismay, 
In storm and sunshine, night and day. 
In health, in sickness, in decay, 
Here and hereafter, I am thine ! 
Thou hast Fastrada's ring. Beneath 
The calm, blue waters of thine eyes 
Deep in thy steadfast soul it lies, 
And, undisturbed by this world's 

breath. 
With magic light its jewels shine ! 
This golden ring, which thou hast worn 
Upon thy finger since the morn, 
Is but a symbol and a semblance. 
An outward fashion, a remembrance, 
Of what thou wearest within unseen, 
O my Fastrada, O my queen ! 
Behold ! the hill -tops all aglow 
With purple and with amethyst ; 
While the whole valley deep below 
Is filled, and seems to overflow. 
With a fast-rising tide of mist. 
The evening air grows damp and chill ; 
Let us go in. 



Ah, not so soon. 
See yonder fire ! It is the moon 
Slow rising o'er the eastern hill. 
It glimmers on the forest tips, 
And through the dewy foliage drips 
In little rivulets of light. 
And makes the heart in love with night. 

PRINCE HENRY. 

Oft on this terrace, when the day 
Was closing, have I stood and gazed, 
And seen the landscape fade away, 
And the white vapors rise and drown 
Hamlet and vineyard, tower and tov>'n, 
V/hile far above the hill-tops blazed. 
But then another hand than thine 
Was gently held and clasped in mine ; 
Another head upon my breast 
Was laid, as thine is now, at reSt. 



I 



i 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



265 



Why dost thou lift those tender eyes 
With so much sorrow and surprise ? 
A minstreFs, not a maiden's hand, 
Was that which in my own was 

pressed. 
A manly form usurped thy place, 
A beautiful, but bearded face, 
That now is in the Holy Land, 
Yet in my memory from afar 
Is shining on us like a star. 
But linger not. For while I speak, 
A sheeted spectre white and tall. 
The cold mist climbs the castle wall. 
And lays his hand upon thy cheek. 
They go in. 

EPILOGUE. 

The Two Recording Angels 
Ascending. 

THE angel of good DEEDS, with 

closed book. 

God sent his messenger the rain, 
And said unto the mountain brook, 
" Rise up, and from thy caverns look 
And leap, with naked, snow-white feet, 
From the cool hills into the heat 
Of the broad, arid plain." 

God sent his messenger of faith, 
And whispered in the maiden's heart, 
"Rise up, and look from where thou 

art. 
And scatter with unselfish hands 
Thy freshness on the barren sands 
And solitudes of Death." 

O beauty of hoHness, 

Of self-forgetfulness, of lowliness ! 

O power of meekness. 

Whose very gentleness and weakness 

Are like the yielding, but irresistible 

air. 
Upon the pages 

Of the sealed volume that I bear. 
The deed divine 
Is written in characters of gold, 
That never shall grow old, 
But through all ages 



Burn and shine. 

With soft effulgence ! 

O God ! it is thy indulgence 

That fills the world with the bliss 

Of a good deed like this ! 

THE ANGEL OF EVIL DEEDS, with 

Open book. 

Not yet, not yet 

Is the red sun wholly set, 

But evermore recedes. 

While open still I bear 

The Book of Evil Deeds, 

To let the breathings of the upper air 

Visit its pages and erase 

The records from its face ! 

Fainter and fainter as I gaze 

In the broad blaze 

The glimmering landscape shines. 

And below me the black river 

Is hidden by wreaths of vapor ! 

Fainter and fainter the black lines 

Begin to quiver 

Along the whitening surface of the 

paper ; 
Shade after shade 
The terrible words grow faint and 

fade. 
And in their place 
Runs a white space ! 

Down goes the sun 

But the soul of one, 

Who by repentance 

Has escaped the dreadful sentence, 

Shines bright below me as I look. 

It is the end ! 

With closed Book 

To God do I ascend. 

Lo ! over the mountain steeps 

A dark, gigantic shadow sweeps 

Beneath my feet ; 

A blackness inwardly brightening 

With sullen heat. 

As a storm-cloud lurid with lightning. 

And a cry of lamentation, 

Repeated and again repeated, 

Deep and loud 

As the reverberation 



266 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



Of cloud answering unto cloud, 
Swells and rolls away in the distance, 
As if the sheeted 
Lightning retreated, 
Baffled and thwarted by the wdnd^s 
resistance. 



It is Lucifer, 

The son of mystery ; 

And since God suffers him to be 

He, too, is God's minister, 

And labors for some good 

By us not understood ! 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA, 1855. 



Should you ask me, whence these 

stories ? 
Whence these legends and traditions, 
With the odors of the forest. 
With the dew and damp of meadows. 
With the curling smoke of wigwams, 
With the rushing of great rivers, 
With their frequent repetitions, 
And their wild reverberations, 
As of thunder in the mountains ? 

I should answer, I should tell you, 
" From the forests and the prairies. 
From the great lakes of the North- 
land, 
From the land of the Ojibways, 
From the land of the Dacotahs, 
From the mountains, moors, and fen- 
lands. 
Where the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
Feeds among the reeds and rushes. 
I repeat them as I heard them 
From the lips of Nawadaha, 
The musician, the sweet singer." 

Should you ask where Nawadaha 
Found these songs, so wild and way- 
ward. 
Found these legends and traditions, 
I should answer, I should tell you, 
" In the bird\s-nests of the forest, 
In the lodges of the beaver, 
In the hoof-prints of the bison, 
In the eyry of the eagle ! 

"All the wild-fowl sang them to 
him, 
In the moorlands and the fen-lands, 
In the melancholy marshes; 
Chetowaik, the plover, sang them, 
Mahng, the loon, the wild goose, 
Wawa, 



The blue heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
And the grouse, the Mushkodasa ! " 

If still further you should ask me, . 
Saying, " Who was Nawadaha ? 
Tell us of this Nawadaha," 
I should answer your inquiries 
Straightway in such words as follow. 

"In the Vale of Tawasentha, 
In the green and silent valley, 
By the pleasant water-courses. 
Dwelt the singer Nawadaha. 
Round about the Indian village 
Spread the meadows and the con 

fields. 
And beyond them stood the forest, 
Stood the groves of singing pine-trees, 
Green in Summer, white in Winter, 
Ever sighing, ever singing. 

" And the pleasant water-courses. 
You could trace them through the 

valley. 
By the rushing in the Spring-time, 
By the alders in the Summer, 
By the white fog in the Autumn, 
By the black line in the Winter ; 
And beside them dwelt the singer, 
In the Vale of Tawasentha, 
In the green and silent valley. 

" There he sang of Hiawatha, 
Sang the Song of Hiawatha, 
Sang his wondrous birth and being, 
How he prayed and how he fasted, 
How he lived, and toiled, and suffered, 
That the tribes of men might prosper, 
That he might advance his people !" 

Ye who love the haunts of Nature, 
Love the sunshine of the meadow, 
Love the shadow of the forest. 
Love the wind among the branches, 



i 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



267 



And the rain-shower and the snow- 
storm, 
And the rushing of great rivers 
Through their paHsades of pine-trees, 
And the thunder in the mountains, 
Whose innumerable echoes 
Flap like eagles in their eyries ; — 
Listen to these wild traditions, 
To this Song of Hiawatha I 

Ye who love a nation's legends, 
Love the ballads of a people, 
That like voices from afar off 
^ Call to us to pause and listen, 

' Speak in tones so plain and childlike. 

Scarcely can the ear distinguish 
Whether they are sung or spoken ; — 
Listen to this Indian Legend, 
To this Song of Hiawatha ! 

Ye whose hearts are fresh and 
simple. 
Who have faith in God and Nature, 
Who believe, that in all ages 
Every human heart is human, 
That in even savage bosoms 
There are longings, yearnings, striv- 
ings 
For the good they comprehend not, 
i That the feeble hands and helpless. 

Groping blindly in the darkness, 
Touch God's right hand in that dark- 
ness 
And are lifted up and strength- 
ened ; — 
Listen to this simple story, 
To this Song of Hiawatha ! 

Ye, who sometimes, in your ram- 
bles, 
Through the green lanes of the coun- 
try, 
I Where the tangled barberry-bushes 

Hang their tufts of crimson berries 
Over stone walls gray with mosses, 
Pause by some neglected graveyard, 
For a while to muse, and ponder 
On a half-effaced inscription. 
Written with little skill of song-craft, 
Homely phrases, but each letter 
Full of hope and yet of heart-break. 
Full of all the tender pathos 
Of the Here and the Hereafter ; — 



Stay and read this rude inscription, 
Read this Song of Hiawatha ! 



THE PEACE-PIPE. 

On the Mountains of the Prairie, 
On the great Red Pipe-stone Quarry, 
Gitche Manito, the mighty. 
He the Master of Light, descending, 
On the red crags of the quarry 
Stood erect, and called the nations, 
Called the tribes of men together. 

From his footprints flowed a river, 
Leaped into the light of morning, 
O'er the precipice plunging down- 
ward 
Gleamed like Ishkoodah, the comet. 
And the Spirit, stooping earthward, 
With his finger on the meadow 
Traced a winding pathway for it. 
Saying to it, " Run in this way ! " 

From the red stone of the quarry 
With his hand he broke a fragment. 
Moulded it into a pipe-head. 
Shaped and fashioned it with figures ; 
From the margin of the river 
Took a long reed for a pipe-stem, 
With its dark green leaves upon it ; 
Filled the pipe with bark of willow. 
With the bark of the red willow ; 
Breathed upon the neighboring forest, 
Made its great boughs chafe together. 
Till in flame they burst and kindled ; 
And erect upon the mountains, 
Gitche Manito, the mighty. 
Smoked the calumet, the Peace-Pipe, 
As a signal to the nations. 

And the smoke rose slowly, slowly. 
Through the tranquil air of morning, 
First a single line of darkness. 
Then a denser, bluer vapor. 
Then a snow-white cloud unfolding. 
Like the tree-tops of the forest. 
Ever rising, rising, rising. 
Till it touched the top of heaven. 
Till it broke against the heaven. 
And rolled outward all around it. 

From the Vale of Tawasentha, 



268 



TflE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



From the Valley of Wyoming, 
From the groves of Tuscaloosa, 
From the far-off Rocky Mountains, 
From the Northern lakes and rivers, 
All the tribes beheld the signal, 
Saw the distant smoke ascending. 
The Pukwana of the Peace-Pipe. 

And the Prophets of the nations 
Said : " Behold it, the Pukwana ! 
By this signal from afar off, 
Bending like a wand of willow. 
Waving like a hand that beckons, 
Gitche Manito, the mighty. 
Calls the tribes of men together, 
Calls the warriors to his council ! " 

Down the rivers, o'er the prairies, 
Came the warriors of the nations. 
Came the Delawares and Mohawks, 
Came the Choctaws and Camanches, 
Came the Shoshonies and Blackfeet, 
Came the Pawnees and Omawhaws, 
Came the Mandans and Dacotahs, 
Came the Hurons and Ojibways, 
All the warriors drawn together 
By the signal of the Peace-Pipe, 
To the Mountains of the Prairie, 
To the great Red Pipe-stone Quarry. 

And they stood there on the 
meadow, 
With their weapons and their war gear. 
Painted like the leaves of Autumn, 
Painted like the sky of morning, 
Wildly glaring at each other ; 
In their faces stern defiance, 
In their hearts the feuds of ages, 
The hereditary hatred, 
The ancestral thirst of vengeance. 

Gitche Manito, the mighty, 
The creator of the nations. 
Looked upon them with compassion. 
With paternal love and pity ; 
Looked upon their wrath and wran- 
gling 
But as quarrels among children. 
But as feuds and fights of children ! 

Over them he stretched his right 
hand. 
To subdue their stubborn natures, 
To allay their thirst and fever. 
By the shadow of his right hand; 



Spake to them with voice majestic 
As the sound of far-off waters, 
Falling into deep abysses. 
Warning, chiding, spake in this 
wise : — 
" O my children ! my poor children ! 
Listen to the words of wisdom. 
Listen to the words of warning, ^ 

From the lips of the Great Spirit, j 

From the Master of Life, who made * 
you. 
" I have given you lands to hunt in, 
I have given you streams to fish in, 
I have given you bear and bison, 
I have given you roe and reindeer, 
I have given you brant and beaver, 
Filled the marshes full of wild-fowl, 
Filled the rivers full of fishes ; 
Why then are you not contented ? 
Why then will you hunt each other ?' 

" I am weary of your quarrels, 
Weary of your wars and bloodshed. 
Weary of your prayers for vengeance, 
Of your wranglings and dissensions ; 
All your strength is in your union. 
All your danger is in discord ; 
Therefore be at peace henceforward 
And as brothers live together. 

" I will send a Prophet to you, 
A Deliverer of the nations. 
Who shall guide you and shall teach 

you. 
Who shall toil and suffer with you 
If you listen to his counsels. 
You will multiply and prosper ; 
If his warnings pass unheeded. 
You will fade away and perish ! 
" Bathe now in the stream before 
you, 
Wash the war-paint from your faces. 
Wash the blood-stains from your fin- 
gers, 
Bury your war-clubs and your weapons. 
Break the red stone from this quarry. 
Mould and make it into Peace-Pipes, 
Take the reeds that grow beside you. 
Deck them with your brightest feath- 
ers. 
Smoke the calumet together. 
And as brothers live henceforward ! " 



1 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



269 



Then upon the ground the warriors 
Threw their cloaks and shirts of deer- 
skin, 
Threw their weapons and their war- 
gear. 
Leaped into the rushing river, 
Washed the war-paint from their 

faces. 
Clear above them flowed the water. 
Clear and limpid from the footprints 
Of the Master of Life descending ; 
Dark below them flowed the water, 
Soiled and stained with streaks of 

crimson, 
As if blood were mingled with it ! 

From the river came the warriors, 
Clean and washed from all their war- 
paint ; 
On the banks their clubs they buried, 
Buried all their warlike weapons. 
Gitche Manito, the mighty, 
The Great Spirit, the creator, 
Smiled upon his helpless children ! 

And in silence all the warriors 
Broke the red stone of the quarry. 
Smoothed and formed it into Peace- 

Pipes, 
Broke the long reeds by the river. 
Decked them with their brightest 

feathers. 
And departed each one homeward, 
While the Master of Life, ascending, 
Through the opening of cloud-cur- 
tains. 
Through the doorways of the heaven. 
Vanished from before their faces, 
In the smoke that rolled around him, 
The Pukwana of the Peace-Pipe ! 



THE FOUR W^NDS. 

" Honor be to Mudjekeewis ! "' 
Cried the w^arriors, cried the old men, 
When he came in triumph homeward 
With the sacred Belt of Wampum, 
From the regions of the North-Wind, 
From the kingdom of Wabasso, 
From the land of the White Rabbit. 



He had stolen the Belt of Wampum 
From the neck of Mishe-Mokwa, 
From the Great Bear of the moun- 
tains. 
From the terror of the nations, 
As he lay asleep and cumbrous 
On the summit of the mountains, 
Like a rock with mosses on it, 
Spotted brown and gray with mosses. 

Silently he stole upon him. 
Till the red nails of the monster 
Almost touched him, almost scared 

him. 
Till the hot breath of his nostrils 
Warmed the hands of Mudjekeewis, 
As he drew the Belt of Wampum 
Over the round ears, that heard not, 
Over the small eyes, that saw not. 
Over the long nose and nostrils, 
The black muffle of the nostrils. 
Out of which the heavy breathing 
Warmed the hands of Mudjekeewis. 

Then he sw-ung aloft his war-club, 
Shouted loud and long his war-cry, 
Smote the mighty Mishe-Mokwa 
In the middle of the forehead, 
RigTit between the eyes he smote him. 

With the heavy blow^ bewildered. 
Rose the Great Bear of the mountains ; 
But his knees beneath him trembled, 
And he whimpered like a woman. 
As he reeled and staggered forward, 
As he sat upon his haunches ; 
And the mighty Mudjekeewis, 
Standing fearlessly before him, 
Taunted him in loud derision, 
Spake disdainfully in this wise : — 

" Hark you. Bear ! you are a coward, 
And no Brave, as you pretended ; 
Else you would not cry and whimper 
Like a miserable woman ! 
Bear ! you know our tribes are hostile, 
Long have been at war together ; 
Now you find that we are strongest. 
You go sneaking in the forest, 
You go hiding in the mountains ! 
Had you conquered me in battle 
Not a groan would I have uttered ; 
But you. Bear ! sit here and whimper, 
And disgrace your tribe by crying. 



270 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



Like a wretched Shaugodaya, 
Like a cowardly old woman ! " 

Then again he raised his war-club, 
Smote again the Mishe-Mokwa 
In the middle of his forehead, 
Broke his skull, as ice is broken 
When one goes to fish in Winter. 
Thus was slain the Mishe-Mokwa, 
He the Great Bear of the mountains, 
He the terror of the nations. 

" Honor be to Mudjekeewis ! " 
With a shout exclaimed the people. 
" Honor be to Mudjekeewis ! 
Henceforth he shall be the West- 
Wind, 
And hereafter and forever 
Shall he hold supreme dominion 
Over all the winds of heaven. 
Call him no more Mudjekeev/is, 
Call him Kabeyun, the West-Wind ! " 

Thus was Mudjekeewis chosen 
Father of the Winds of Heaven. 
For himself he kept the West- Wind, 
Gave the others to his children ; 
Unto Wabun gave the East-Wind, 
Gave the South to Shawondasee, 
And the North-Wind, wild and cruel, 
To the fierce Kabibonokka. 

Young and beautiful was Wabun ; 
He it was who brought the morning. 
He it was whose silver arrows 
Chased the dark o'er hill and valley ; 
He it was whose cheeks were painted 
With the brightest streaks of crimson. 
And whose voice awoke the village. 
Called the deer, and called the hunter. 

Lonely in the sky was Wabun ; 
Though the birds sang gayly to him. 
Though the wild-flowers of the meadow 
Filled the air with odors for him, 
Though the forests and the rivers 
Sang and shouted at his coming. 
Still his heart was sad within him, 
For he was alone in heaven. 

But one morning, gazing earthward, 
While the village still was sleeping, 
And the fog lay on the river, 
Like a ghost, that goes at sunrise, 
He beheld a maiden walking 
All alone upon a meadow, 



Gathering water-flags and rushes 
By a river in the meadow. 

Every morning, gazing earthward, 
Still the first thing he beheld there 
Was her blue eyes looking at him, 
Two blue lakes among the rushes. 
And he loved the lonely maiden, 
Who thus waited for his coming ; 
For they both were solitary. 
She on earth and he in heaven. 

And he wooed her with caresses. 
Wooed her with his smile of sunshine. 
With his flattering words he wooed 

her, 
With his sighing and his singing. 
Gentlest whispers in the branches, 
Softest music, sweetest odors, 
Till he drew her to his bosom, 
Folded in his robes of crimson. 
Till into a star he changed her. 
Trembling still upon his bosom ; 
And forever in the heavens 
They are seen together walking, 
Wabun and the Wabun-Annung, 
Wabun and the Star of Morning. 

But the fierce Kabibonokka 
Had his dwelling among icebergs, 
In the everlasting snow-drifts, 
In the kingdom of Wabasso, 
In the land of the White Rabbit. 
He it was whose hand in Autumn 
Painted all the trees with scarlet. 
Stained the leaves with red and 

yellow ; 
He it was who sent the snow-flakes, 
Sifting, hissing through the forest, 
Froze the ponds, the lakes, the rivers, 
Drove the loon and sea-gull south- 
ward. 
Drove the cormorant and curlew 
To their nests of sedge and sea-tang 
In the realms of Shawondasee. 

Once the fierce Kabibonokka 
Issued from his lodge of snow-drifts. 
From his home among the icebergs. 
And his hair, with snow besprinkled 
Streamed behind him like a river, 
Like a black and wintry river. 
As he howled and hurried southward. 
Over frozen lakes and moorlands. 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



271 



There among the reeds and rushes 
Found he Shingebis, the diver, 
Trailing strings offish behind him, 
O'er the frozen fens and moorlands, 
Lingering still among the moorlands, 
Though his tribe had long departed 
To the land of Shawondasee. 

Cried the fierce Kabibonokka, 
" Who is this that dares to brave me ? 
Dares to stay in my dominions, 
When the Wawa has departed, 
When the wild-goose has gone south- 

v^'ard. 
And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
Long ago departed southward ? 
I will go into his wigwam, 
i will put his smouldering fire out ! " 

And at night Kabibonokka 
To the lodge came wild and wailing, 
Heaped the snow in drifts about it, 
Shouted down into the smoke-flue, 
Shook the lodge-poles in his fury, 
Flapped the curtain of the door-way. 
Shingebis, the diver, feared not, 
Shingebis, the diver, cared not ; 
Four great logs had he for fire-wood, 
One for each moon of the winter, 
And for food the fishes served him. 
By his blazing fire he sat there, 
Warm and merry, eating, laughing. 
Singing, •' O Kabibonokka, 
You are but my fellow-mortal ! " 

Then Kabibonokka entered. 
And though Shingebis, the diver. 
Felt his presence by the coldness, 
Felt his icy breath upon him, 
Still he did not cease his singing, 
Still he did not leave his laughing, 
Only turned the log a little. 
Only made the fire burn brighter. 
Made the sparks fly up the smoke-flue. 

From Kabibonokka's forehead. 
From his snow-besprinkled tresses. 
Drops of sweat fell fast and heavy, 
Making dints upon the ashes. 
As along the eaves of lodges, 
As from drooping boughs of hemlock, 
Drips the melting snow in spring-time. 
Making hollows in the snow-drifts. 

Till at last he rose defeated, 



Could not bear the heat and laughter. 
Could not bear the merry singing. 
But rushed headlong through the 

door-way, 
Stamped upon the crusted snow-drifts, 
Stamped upon the lakes and rivers. 
Made the snow upon them harder. 
Made the ice upon them thicker. 
Challenged Shingebis, the diver. 
To come forth and wrestle with him, 
To come forth and wrestle naked 
On the frozen fens and moorlands. 
Forth went Shingebis, the diver, 
W^restled all night with the North- 
Wind, 
Wrestled naked on the moorlands 
With the fierce Kabibonokka, 
Till his panting breath grew fainter, 
Till his frozen grasp grew feebler. 
Till he reele(;^and staggered backward, 
And retreated, baffled, beaten, 
To the kingdom of Wabasso, 
To the land of the White Rabbit, 
Hearing still the gusty laughter, 
Hearing Shingebis, the diver, 
Singing, "O Kabibonokka, 
You are but my fellow-mortal ! " 

Shawondasee, fat and lazy. 
Had his dwelling far to southward, 
In the drowsy, dreamy sunshine. 
In the never-ending Summer. 
He it was who sent the wood-birds. 
Sent the robin, the Opechee, 
Sent the blue-bird, the Owaissa, 
Sent the Shawshavv, sent the swallow, 
Sent the wild-goose, Wawa, north- 
ward. 
Sent the melons and tobacco, 
And the grapes in purple clusters. 

From his pipe the smoke ascending 
Filled the sky with haze and vapor. 
Filled the air with dreamy softness, 
Gave a twinkle to the water. 
Touched the rugged hills with smooth- 
ness, 
Brought the tender Indian Summer 
To the melancholy north-land, 
In the dreary Moon of Snow-shoes. 

Listless, careless Shawondasee ! 
In his life he had one shadow, 



272 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



In his heart one sorrow had he. 
Once, as he was gazing northward, 
Far away upon a prairie 
He beheld a maiden standing, 
Saw a tall and slender maiden 
All alone upon a prairie ; 
Brightest green were all her garments. 
And her hair was like the sunshine. 

Day by day he gazed upon her, 
Day by day he sighed with passion. 
Day by day his heart within him 
Grew more hot with love and longing 
For the maid with yellow tresses. 
But he was too fat and lazy 
To bestir himself and woo her ; 
Yes, too indolent and easy 
To pursue her and persuade her. 
So he only gazed upon her, 
Only sat and sighed with passion 
For the maiden of the prairie. 

Till one morning, looking north- 
ward, 
He beheld her yellow tresses 
Changed and covered o'er with white- 
ness, 
Covered as with whitest snow-flakes. 
" Ah ! my brother from the North-land, 
From the kingdom of Wabasso, 
P'rom the land of the White Rabbit ! 
You have stolen the maiden from me. 
You have laid your hand upon her. 
You have wooed and won my maiden, 
With your stories of the North-land ! " 

Thus the wretched Shawondasee 
Breathed into the air his sorrow ; 
And the South-Wind o'er the prairie 
Wandered warm with sighs of passion, 
With the sighs of Shawondasee, 
Till the air seemed full of snow-flakes. 
Full of thistle-down the prairie. 
And the maid with hair like sunshine 
Vanished from his sight forever ; 
Never more did Shawondasee 
See the maid with yellow tresses ! 

Poor, deluded Shawondasee ! 
'T was no woman that you gazed at, 
'T was no maiden that you sighed for, 
'T was the prairie dandelion 
That through all the dreamy Summer 
You had gazed at with such longing. 



You had sighed for with such passion, 
And had puffed away forever. 
Blown into the air with sighing. 
Ah ! deluded Shawondasee ! 

Thus the Four Winds were divided ; 
Thus the sons of Mudjekeewis 
Had their stations in the heavens ; 
At the corners of the heavens ; 
For himself the West-Wind only 
Kept the mighty Mudjekeewis. 



III. 

HIAWATHA'S CHILDHOOD. 

Downward through the evening twi- 
light, . 
In the days that are forgotten, 
In the unremembered ages, 
From the full moon fell Nokomis, 
Fell the beautiful Nokomis, 
She a wife, but not a mother. 

She was sporting with her women, 
Swinging in a swing of grape-vines, 
When her rival, the rejected, 
Full of jealousy and hatred, J 

Cut the leafy swing asunder, 1 

Cut in twain the twisted grape-vines, 
And Nokomis fell affrighted 
Downward through the evening twi- 
light. 
On the Muskoday, the meadow. 
On the prairie full of blossoms. 
" See ! a star falls ! " said the people ; 
" From the sky a star is falling ! " 

There among the ferns and mosses, 
There among the prairie lilies. 
On the Muskoday, the meadow. 
In the moonlight and the starlight, 
Fair Nokomis bore a daughter. 
And she called her name Wenonah, 
As the first-born of her daughters. 
And the daughter of Nokomis 
Grew up like the prairie lilies, 
Grew a tall and slender maiden. 
With the beauty of the moonlight. 
With the beauty of the starlight. 

And Nokomis warned her often, 
Saying oft, and oft repeating, 




THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



^n 



" O, beware of Mudjekeewis, 
Of the West-Wind, Mudjekeewis ; 
Listen not to what he tells you ; 
Lie not down upon the meadow. 
Stoop not down among the lilies, 
Lest the West-Wind come and harm 
you ! " 
But she heeded not the warning, 
Heeded not those words of wisdom, 
And the West-Wind came at even- 
ing. 
Walking lightly o'er the prairie. 
Whispering to the leaves and blos- 
soms, 
Bending low the flowers and grasses, 
Found the beautiful Wenonah, 
Lying there among the lilies, 
Wooed her with his words of sweet- 
ness. 
Wooed her with his soft caresses, 
Till she bore a son in sorrow, 
Bore a son of love and sorrow. 

Thus was born my Hiawatha, 
Thus was born the child of wonder ; 
But the daughter of Nokomis, 
Hiawatha's gentle mother, 
in her anguish died deserted 
By the West- Wind, false and faith- 
less. 
By the heartless Mudjekeewis. 

For her daughter, long and loudly 
Wailed and wept the sad Nokomis ; 
" O that I were dead ! " she mur- 
mured, 
" O that I were dead, as thou art ! 
No more work, and no more weeping, 
Wahonowin ! Wahonowin ! " 

By the shores of Gitche Gumee, 
By the shining Big-Sea-Water, 
Stood the wigwam of Nokomis, 
Daughter of the Moon, Nokomis. 
Dark behind it rose the forest, 
Rose the black and gloomy pine-trees, 
Rose the firs with cones upon them ; 
Bright before it beat the water, 
Beat the clear and sunny water, 
Beat the shining Big-Sea-Water. 

There the wrinkled, old Nokomis 
Nursed the little Hiawatha, 
Rocked him in his linden cradle, 



Bedded soft in moss and rushes, 
Safely bound with reindeer sinews ; 
Stilled his fretful wail by saying, 
"Hush! the Naked Bear will get 

thee ! " 
Lulled him into Slumber, singing, 
"Ewa-yea ! my little owlet ! 
Who is this, that lights the wigwam ? 
With his great eyes lights the wig- 
wam ? 
Ewa-yea ! my little owlet ! " 

Many things Nokomis taught him 
Of the stars that shine in heaven ; 
Showed him Ishkoodah, the comet, 
Lshkoodah, with fiery tresses ; 
Showed the Death-Dance of the 

spirits. 
Warriors with their plumes and war- 
clubs. 
Flaring far away to northward 
In the frosty nights of Winter; 
Showed the broad, white road in 

heaven. 
Pathway of the ghosts, the shadows, 
Running straight across the heavens, 
Crowded with the ghosts, the shad- 
ows. 
At the door on summer evenings 
Sat the little Hiawatha; 
Heard the whispering of the pine- 
trees. 
Heard the lapping of the water. 
Sounds of music, words of wonder ; 
" Minne-wawa ! " said the pine-trees, 
" Mudway-aushka ! " said the water. 
Saw the fire-fly, Wah-wah-taysee, 
Flitting through the dusk of evening, 
With the twinkle of its candle 
Lighting up the brakes and bushes. 
And he sang the song of children. 
Sang the song Nokomis taught him : 
" Wah-wah-taysee, little fire-fly, 
Little, flitting, white-fire insect, 
Little, dancing, white-fire creature, 
Light me with your little candle, 
Ere upon my bed I lay me, 
Ere in sleep I close my eyelids !" 

Saw the moon rise from the water 
Rippling, rounding from the water, 
Saw the flecks and shadows on it, 



274 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



Whispered, "What is that, Noko- 

mis ? '' 
And the good Nokomis answered : 
" Once a warrior, very angry, 
Seized his grandmother, and threw 

her 
Up into the sky at midnight ; 
Right against the moon he threw her ; 
'T is her body that you see there." 
Saw the rainbow in the heaven. 
In the eastern sky, the rainbow, 
Whispered, "What is that, Noko- 
mis ?" 
And the good Nokomis answered : 
" 'T is the heaven of flowers you see 

there ; 
All the wild-flowers of the forest, 
All the lilies of the prairie. 
When on earth they fade and perish. 
Blossom in that heaven above us." 
When he heard the owls at mid- 
night. 
Hooting, laughing in the forest, 
" What is that ? " he cried in terror ; 
"What is that ?" he said, "Nokomis ?" 
And the good Nokomis answered ; 
" That is but the owl and owlet. 
Talking in their native language. 
Talking, scolding at each other." 

Then the little Hiawatha 
Learned of every bird its language. 
Learned their names and all their 

secrets, 
How they built their nests in Summer, 
Where they hid themselves in Winter, 
Talked with them whene'er he met 

them. 
Called them " Hiawatha's Chickens." 
Of all beasts he learned the lan- 
guage. 
Learned their names and all their 

secrets. 
How the beavers built their lodges, 
Where the squirrels hid their acorns, 
How the reindeer ran so swiftly, 
Why the rabbit was so timid, 
Talked with them whene'er he met 

them. 
Called them " Hiawatha's Brothers." 
Then lagoo, the great boaster, 



He the marvellous story-teller, 

He the traveller and the talker, 

He the friend of old Nokomis, 

Made a bow for Hiawatha ; 

From a branch of ash he made it, ^^_ 

From an oak-bough made the arrows, 

Tipped with flint, and winged with 

feathers, 
And the cord he made of deer-skin. 

Then he said to Hiawatha: 
" Go, my son, into the forest. 
Where the red deer herd together, 
Kill for us a famous roebuck, 
Kill for us a deer with antlers ! " 

Forth into the forest straightway 
All alone walked Hiawatha 
Proudly, with his bow and arrows ; 
And the birds sang round him, o'er 

him, 
"Do not shoot us, Hiawatha !" 
Sang the robin, the Opechee, 
Sang the blue-bird, the Owaissa, 
" Do not shoot us, Hiawatha ! " 

Up the oak-tree, close beside him, 
Sprang the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 
In and out among the branches. 
Coughed and chattered from the oak- 
tree. 
Laughed, and said between his laugh- 
ing. 
" Do not shoot me, Hiawatha ! " 

And the rabbit from his pathway 
Leaped aside, and at a distance 
Sat erect upon his haunches. 
Half in fear and half in frolic, 
Saying to the little hunter, 
" Do not shoot me, Hiawatha ! " 

But he heeded not, nor heard them, 
For his thoughts were with the red 

deer; 
On their tracks his eyes were fastened, 
Leading downward to the river. 
To the ford across the river. 
And as one in slumber walked he. 

Hidden in the alder-bushes. 
There he waited till the deer came, 
Till he saw two antlers lifted. 
Saw two eyes look from the thicket. 
Saw two nostrils point to windward, 
And a deer came down the pathway, 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



275 



Flecked with leafy light and shadow. 
And his heart within him fluttered, 
Trembled like the leaves above him, 
Like the birch-leaf palpitated, 
As the deer came down the pathway. 

Then, upon one knee uprising, 
Hiawatha aimed an arrow ; 
Scarce a twi^g moved with his motion. 
Scarce a leaf was stirred or rustled. 
But the wary roebuck started, 
Stamped with all his hoofs together, 
Listened wdth one foot uplifted. 
Leaped as if to meet the arrow. 
Ah ! the singing, fatal arrow ; 
Like a wasp it buzzed and stung him ! 

Dead he lay there in the forest. 
By the ford across the river ; 
Beat his timid heart no longer, 
But the heart of Hiawatha 
Throbbed and shouted and exulted. 
As he bore the red deer homeward. 
And lagoo and Nokomis 
Hailed his coming with applauses. 

From the red deer's hide Nokomis 
Made a cloak for Hiawatha, 
From the red deer\s flesh Nokomis 
Made a banquet in his honor. 
All the village came and feasted. 
All the guests praised Hiawatha, 
Called him Strong-Heart, Soan-ge- 

taha! 
Called him Loon-Heart, Mahn-go- 
taysee ! 

IV. 

HIAWATHA AND MUDJEKEEWIS. 

Out of childhood into manhood 
Now had grown my Hiawatha, 
Skilled in all the craft of hunters. 
Learned in all the lore of old men, 
In all youthful sports and pastimes. 
In all manly arts and labors. 

Swift of foot was Hiawatha; 
He could shoot an arrow from him, 
And run forward with such fleetness. 
That the arrow fell behind him ! 
Strong of arm was Hiawatha ; 
He could shoot ten arrows upward. 



Shoot them with such strength and 

swiftness. 
That the tenth had left the bow-string 
Ere the first to earth had fallen ! 
He had mittens, Minjekahwun, 
Magic mittens made of deer-skin ; 
When upon his hands he wore them, 
He could smite the rocks asunder. 
He could grind them into powder. 
He had moccasins enchanted, 
Magic moccasins of deer-skin ; 
When he bound them round his ankles. 
When upon his feet he tied them. 
At each stride a mile he measured ! 
Much he questioned old Nokomis 
Of his father Mudjekeewis ; 
Learned from her the fatal secret 
Of the beauty of his mother, 
Of the falsehood of his father ; 
And his heart was hot within him, 
Like a living coal his heart was. 
Then he said to old Nokomis, 
"I will go to Mudjekeewis, 
See how fares it with my father. 
At the doorways of the West-Wind, 
At the portals of the Sunset ! " 

From his lodge went Hiawatha, 
Dressed for travel, armed for hunting ; 
Dressed in deer-skin shirt and leg- 
gings, 
Richly wrought with quills and wam- 
pum ; 
On his head his eagle-feathers. 
Round his waist his belt of wampum, 
In his hand his bow of ash-wood, 
Strung with sinews of the reindeer; 
In his quiver oaken arrows, 
Tipped with jasper, winged with 

feathers ; 
With his mittens, Minjekahwun, 
With his moccasins enchanted. 

Warning said the old Nokomis, 
" Go not forth, O Hiawatha ! 
To the kingdom of the West-Wind, 
To the realms of Mudjekeewis, 
Lest he harm you with his magic. 
Lest he kill you with his cunning ! " 

But the fearless Hiawatha 
Heeded not her woman's warning ; 
Forth he strode into the forest, 



276 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



At each stride a mile he measured ; 
Lurid seemed the sky above him. 
Lurid seemed the earth beneath him, 
Hot and close the air around him, 
Filled with smoke and fiery vapors, 
As of burning woods and prairies, 
For his heart was hot within him, 
Like a living coal his heart was. 

So he journeyed westward, west- 
ward, 
Left the fleetest deer behind him, 
Left the antelope and bison ; 
Crossed the rushing Esconawbaw, 
Crossed the mighty Mississippi, 
Passed the Mountains of the Prairie, 
Passed the land of Crows and Foxes, 
Passed the dwellings of the Black- 
feet, 
Came unto the Rocky Mountains, 
To the kingdom of the West-Wind, 
Where upon the gusty summits 
Sat the ancient Mudjekeewis, 
Ruler of the winds of heaven. 

Filled with awe was Hiawatha 
At the aspect of his father. 
On the air about him wildly 
Tossed and streamed his cloudy 

tresses, 
Gleamed like drifting snow his tresses, 
Glared like Ishkoodah, the comet. 
Like the star with fiery tresses. 

Filled with joy was Mudjekeewis 
When he looked on Hiawatha, 
Saw his youth rise up before him 
In the face of Hiawatha, 
Saw the beauty of Wenonah 
From the grave rise up before him. 

"Welcome ! " said he, " Hiawatha, 
To the kingdom of the West-Wind ! 
Long have 1 been waiting for you ! 
Youth is lovely, age is lonely. 
Youth is fiery, age is frosty ; 
You bring back the days departed, 
You bring back my vouth of passion. 
And the beautiful Wenonah ! " 

Many days they talked together. 
Questioned, listened, waited, an- 
swered ; 
Much the mighty Mudjekeewis 
Boasted of his ancient prowess, 



Of his perilous adventures, 
His indomitable courage, 
His invulnerable body. 

Patiently sat Hiawatha, 
Listening to his father's boasting ; 
With a smile he sat and listened. 
Uttered neither threat nor menace. 
Neither word nor look betrayed him, 
But his heart was hot within him, 
Like a living coal his heart was. 

Then he said, " O Mudjekeewis, 
Is there nothing that can harm you ? 
Nothing that you are afraid of ? " 
And the mighty Mudjekeewis, 
Grand and gracious in his boasting. 
Answered, saying, " There is nothing, 
Nothing but the black rock yonder. 
Nothing but the fatal Wawbeek ! "^ 

And he looked at Hiawatha 
With a wise look and benignant. 
With a countenance paternal. 
Looked with pride upon the beauty 
Of his tall and graceful figure. 
Saying, " O my Hiawatha ! 
Is there anything can harm you ? 
Anything you are afraid of?" 

But the wary Hiawatha 
Paused awhile, as if uncertain, 
Held his peace, as if resolving, 
And then answered, " There is noth- 

Nothing but the bulrush yonder. 
Nothing but the great Apukwa !" 

And as Mudjekeewis, rising. 
Stretched his hand to pluck the bul- 
rush, 
Hiawatha cried in terror. 
Cried in well-dissembled terror, 
" Kago ! kago ! do not tolich it ! " 
" Ah, kaween ! " said Mudjekeewis, 
" No indeed, I will not touch it ! " 

Then they talked of other matters; 
First of Hiawatha's brothers, 
First of Wabun, of the East- Wind, 
Of the South-Wind, Shawondasee, 
Of the North, Kabibonokka; 
Then of Hiawatha's mother, 
Of the beautiful Wenonah, 
Of her birth upon the meadow, 
Of her death, as old Nokomis 



i 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



277 



Had remembered and related. 

And he cried, "• O Mudjekeewis, 
It was you who killed Wenonah, 
Took her young life and her beauty, 
Broke the Lily of the Prairie, 
Trampled it beneath your footsteps. 
You confess it ! you confess it ! " 
And the mighty Mudjekeewis 
Tossed upon the wind his tresses. 
Bowed his hoary head in anguish, 
With a silent nod assented. 

Then up started Hiawatha, 
And with threatening look and gesture 
Laid his hand upon the black rock. 
On the fatal Wawbeek laid it. 
With his mittens, Minjekahwun, 
Rent the jutting crag asunder. 
Smote and crushed it into fragments, 
Hurled them madly at his father, 
The remorseful Mudjekeewis, 
For his heart was hot within him. 
Like a living coal his heart was. 

But the ruler of the West-Wind 
Blew the fragments backward from 

him. 
With the breathing of his nostrils, 
With the tempest of his anger, 
Blew them back at his assailant ; 
Seized the bulrush, the Apukwa, 
Dragged it with its roots and fibres 
From the margin of the meadow. 
From its ooze, the giant bulrush ; 
Long and loud laughed Hiawatha ! 

Then began the deadly conflict. 
Hand to hand among the mountains ; 
From his eyry screamed the eagle, 
The Keneu, the great war-eagle ; 
Sat upon the crags around them. 
Wheeling flapped his wings above 
them. 

Like a tall tree in the tempest 
Bent and lashed the giant bulrush ; 
And in masses huge and heavy 
Crashing fell the fatal Wawbeek ; 
Till the earth shook with the tumult 
And confusion of the battle, 
And the air was full of shoutings, 
And the thunder of the mountains, 
Starting, answered, " Baim-wawa ! " 

Back retreated Mudjekeewis, 



Rushing westward o'er the mountains. 
Stumbling westward down the moun- 
tains. 
Three whole days retreated fighting. 
Still pursued by Hiawatha 
To the doorways of the West-Wind, 
To the portals of the Sunset, 
To the earth's remotest border, 
Where into the empty spaces 
Sinks the sun, as a flamingo 
Drops into her nest at nightfall, 
In the melancholy marshes. 

" Hold ! " at length cried Mudje- 
keewis, 
" Hold, my son, my Hiawatha ! 
'T is impossible to kill me. 
For you cannot kill the immortal 
I have put you to this trial. 
But to know and prove your courage ; 
Now receive the prize of valor ! 

" Go back to your home and* people. 
Live among them, toil among them. 
Cleanse the earth from all that harms 

it, 
Clear the fishing-grounds and rivers, 
Slay all monsters and magicians. 
All the Wendigoes, the giants. 
All the serpents, the Kenabeeks, 
As I slew the Mishe-Mokwa, 
Slew the Great Bear of the moun- 
tains. 

'' And at last when Death draws 
near you. 
When the awful eyes of Pauguk 
Glare upon you in the darkness, 
I will share my kingdom with you, 
Ruler shall you be thenceforward 
Of the Northwest-Wind, Keewaydin, 
Of the home-wind, the Keewaydin.'' 

Thus was fought that famous battle 
In the dreadful days of Shah-shah, 
In the days long since departed. 
In the kingdom of the West-Wind. 
Still the hunter sees its traces 
Scattered far o'er hill and valley ; 
Sees the giant bulrush growing 
By the ponds and water-courses, 
Sees the masses of the Wawbeek 
Lying still in every valley. «». 

Homeward now went Hiawatha; 



278 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



Pleasant was the landscape round 

him, 
Pleasant was the air above him, 
For the bitterness of anger 
Had departed wholly from him. 
From his brain the thought of ven- 
geance, 
From his heart the burning fever. 

Only once his pace he slackened, 
Only once he paused or halted. 
Paused to purchase heads of arrows 
Of the ancient Arrow-maker, 
In the land of the Dacotahs, 
Where the Falls of Minnehaha 
Flash and gleam among the oak-trees. 
Laugh and leap into the valley. 

There the ancient Arrow-maker 
Made his arrow-heads of sandstone, 
Arrow-heads of chalcedony, 
Arrow-heads of flint and jasper, 
Smoothed and sharpened at the 

edges, 
Hard and polished, keen and costly. 
With him dwelt his dark-eyed 
daughter. 
Wayward as the Minnehaha, 
With her moods of shade and sun- 
shine. 
Eyes that smiled and frowned alter- 
nate, 
Feet as rapid as the river, 
Tresses flowing like the water. 
And as musical a laughter ; 
And he named her from the river. 
From the water-fall he named her, 
Minnehaha, Laughing Water. 

Was it then for heads of arrows, 
Arrow-heads of chalcedony, 
Arrow-heads of flint and jasper, 
That my Hiawatha halted 
In the land of the Dacotahs ? 

Was it not to see the maiden. 
See the face of Laughing Water 
Peeping from behind the curtain. 
Hear the rustling of her garments 
From behind the waving curtain. 
As one sees the Minnehaha 
Gleaming, glancing through the 

branches. 
As one hears the Laughing Water 



From behind its screen of branches ? 
Who shall say what thoughts and 
visions 
Fill the fiery brains of young men ? 
Who shall say what dreams of beauty 
Filled the heart of Hiawatha ? 
All he told to old Nokomis, 
When he reached the lodge at sunset, 
Was the meeting with his father, 
Was his fight with Mudjekeewis ; 
Not a word he said of arrows. 
Not a word of Laughing Water ! 

V. 

HIAWATHA'S FASTING. 

You shall hear how Hiawatha 
Prayed and fasted in the forest. 
Not for greater skill in hunting. 
Not for greater craft in fishing. 
Not for triumphs in the battle, 
And renown among the warriors, 
But for profit of the people. 
For advantage of the nations. 

First he built a lodge for fasting, 
Built a wigwam in the forest, 
By the shining Big-Sea-Water, 
In the blithe and pleasant Spring- 
time, 
In the Moon of Leaves he built it. 
And, with dreams and visions many, 
Seven whole days and nights he 
fasted . 
On the first day of his fasting 
Through the leafy woods he wan- 
dered : 
Saw the deer start from the thicket, 
Saw the rabbit in his burrow. 
Heard the pheasant, Bena, drum- 
ming, 
Heard the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 
Rattling in his hoard of acorns. 
Saw the pigeon, the Omeme, 
Building nests among the pine-trees, 
And in flocks the wild goose, Wawa, 
Flying to the fen-lands northward. 
Whirring, wailing far above him. 
" Master of Life ! " he cried, despond- 
ing, 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



279 



I 



"Must our lives depend on these 
things ? " 
On the next day of his fasting 
By the river's brink he wandered, 
Through the Muskoday, the meadow, 
Saw the wild rice, Mahnomonee, 
Saw the blueberry, Meenahga, 
And the strawberry, Odahmin, 
And the gooseberry, Shahbomin, 
And the grape-vine, the Bemahgut, 
Trailing o'er the alder-branches. 
Filling all the air with fragrance ! 
"Master of Life ! " he cried, despond- 

" Must our lives depend on these 
things ? " 
On the third day of his fasting 
By the lake he sat and pondered, 
By the still, transparent water ; 
Saw the sturgeon, Nahma, leaping. 
Scattering drops like beads of wam- 
pum. 
Saw the yellow perch, the Sahwa, 
Like a sunbeam in the water, 
Saw the pike, the Maskenozha, 
And the herring, Okahahwis, 
And the Shawgashee, the craw-fish ! 
" Master of Life ! " he cried, despond- 
ing, 
"Must our lives depend on these 
things ? " 
On the fourth day of his fasting 
In his lodge he lay exhausted ; 
From his couch of leaves and branches 
Gazing with half-open eyelids. 
Full of shadowy dreams and visions, 
On the dizzy, swimming landscape, 
On the gleaming of the water. 
On the splendor of the sunset. 

And he saw a youth approaching. 
Dressed in garments green and yel- 
low. 
Coming through the purple twilight. 
Through the splendor of the sunset ; 
Plumes of green bent o'er his fore- 
head. 
And his hair was soft and golden. 
• Standing at the open doorway, 
Long he looked at Hiawatha, 
Looked with pity and compassion 



On his wasted form and features, 
And, in accents like the sighing 
Of the South-Wind in the tree-tops. 
Said he, '' O my Hiawatha ! 
All your prayers are heard in heaven, 
For you pray not like the others. 
Not for greater skill in hunting. 
Not for greater craft in fishing. 
Not for triumph in the battle, 
Nor renown among the warriors. 
But for profit of the people, 
For advantage of the nations. 

" From the Master of Life descend- 

in.?» 
I, the friend of man, Mondamin, 
Come to warn you and instruct you, 
How by struggle and by labor 
You shall gain what you have prayed 

for. 
Rise up from your bed of branches, 
Rise, O youth, and wrestle with me ! " 

Faint with famine, Hiawatha 
Started from his bed of branches. 
From the twilight of his wigwam 
Forth into the flush of sunset 
Came, and wrestled with Mondamin ; 
At his touch he felt new courage 
Throbbing in his brain and bosom, 
Felt new life and hope and vigor 
Run through every nerve and fibre. 

So they wrestled there together 
In the glory of the sunset. 
And the more they strove and strug- 
gled, 
Stronger still grew Hiawatha ; 
Till the darkness fell around them, 
And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
From her nest among the pine-trees, 
Gave a cry of lamentation. 
Gave a scream of pain and famine. 
" 'T is enough ! " then said Monda- 
min, 
Smiling upon Hiawatha, 
" But to-morrow, when the sun sets, 
I will come again to try you." 
And he vanished, and was seen not ; 
Whether sinking as the rain sinks. 
Whether rising as the mists rise, 
Hiawatha saw not, knew not, 
Only saw that he had vanished, 



28o 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



Leaving him alone and fainting, 
Witli the misty lake below him, 
And the reeling stars above him. 

On the morrow and the next day, . 
When the sun through heaven de- 
scending, 
Like a red and burning cinder. 
From the hearth of the Great Spirit, 
Fell into the western waters. 
Came Modamin for the trial, 
P^or the strife with Hiawatha; 
Came as silent as the dew comes, 
From the empty air appearing. 
Into empty air returning, 
Taking shape when earth it touches, 
But invisible to all men 
In its coming and its going. 

Thrice they wrestled there together 
In the glory of the sunset, 
Till the darkness fell around them, 
Till the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
From her nest among the pine-trees, 
Uttered her loud cry of famine. 
And Mondamin paused to listen. 

Tall and beautiful he stood there, 
In his garments green and yellow ; 
To and fro his plumes above him 
Waved and nodded with his breathing, 
And the sweat of the encounter 
Stood like drops of dew upon him. 

And he cried, "O Hiawatha! 
Bravely have you wrestled with me. 
Thrice have wrestled stoutly with me. 
And the Master of Life, who sees us, 
He will give to you the triumph ! ''' 

Then he smiled, and said: "To- 
morrow 
Is the last day of your conflict. 
Is the last day of your fasting. 
You will conquer and overcome me ; 
Make a bed for me to lie in. 
Where the rain may fall upon me. 
Where the sun may come and warm 

me ; 
Strip these garments, green and yel- 
low. 
Strip this nodding plumage from me, 
Lay me in the earth, and make it 
Soft and loose and light above me. 

" Let no hand disturb my slumber, 



Let no weed nor worm molest me. 
Let not Kahgahgee, the raven, 
Come to haunt me and molest me. 
Only come yourself to watch me. 
Till I wake, and start, and quicken, 
Till I leap into the sunshine." 

And thus saying, he departed ; 
Peacefully slept Hiawatha, 
But he heard the Wawonaissa, 
Heard the whippoorwill complaining, 
Perched upon his lonely wigwam ; 
Heard the rushing Sebowisha, 
Heard the rivulet rippling near him. 
Talking to the darksome forest ; 
Heard the sighing of the branches, 
As they lifted and subsided 
At the passing of the night-wind. 
Heard them, as one hears in slumber 
Far-off murmurs, dreamy whispers : 
Peacefully slept Hiawatha. 

On the morrow came Nokomis, 
On the seventh day of his fasting, 
Came with food for Hiawatha, 
Came imploring and bewailing, 
Lest his hunger should o'ercome him, 
Lest his fasting should be fatal. 

But he tasted not, and touched not. 
Only said to her, "Nokomis, 
Wait until the sun is setting, 
Till the darkness falls around us. 
Till the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
Crying from the desolate marshes. 
Tells us that the day is ended." 

Homeward weeping went Nokomis, 
Sorrowing for her Hiawatha, 
Fearing lest his strength should fail 

him. 
Lest his fasting should be fatal. 
He meanwhile sat weary waiting 
For the coming of Mondamin, 
Till the shadows, pointing eastward. 
Lengthened over field and forest. 
Till the sun dropped from the heaven. 
Floating on the waters westward, 
As a red leaf in the Autumn 
Falls and floats upon the water, 
Falls and sinks into its bosom. 

And behold! the young Mondamin, 
With his soft and shining tresses, 
With his garments green and yellow, 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



281 



With his long and glossy plumage, 
Stood and beckoned at the doorway. 
And as one in slumber walking, 
Pale and haggard, but undaunted, 
From the wigwam Hiawatha 
Came and wrestled with Mondamin. 
Round about him spun the land- 
scape, 
Sky and forest reeled together, 
And his strong heart leaped within 

him. 
As the sturgeon leaps and struggles 
In a net to break its meshes. 
Like a ring of fire around him 
Blazed and flared the red horizon, 
And a hundred suns seemed looking 
At the combat of the wrestlers. 

Suddenly upon the greensward 
All alone stood Hiawatha, 
Panting with his wild exertion, 
Palpitating with the struggle; 
And before him, breathless, lifeless, 
Lay the youth, with hair dishevelled. 
Plumage torn, and garments tattered, 
Dead he lay there in the sunset. 

And victorious Hiawatha 
Made the grave as he commanded, 
Stripped the garments from Mon- 
damin, 
Stripped his tattered plumage from 

him. 
Laid him in the earth, and made it 
Soft and loose and light above him ; 
And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
From the melancholy moorlands, 
Gave a cry of lamentation, 
Gave a cry of pain and anguish ! 

Homeward then went Hiawatha 
To the lodge of old Nokomis, 
And the seven days of his fasting 
Were accomplished and completed, 
But the place was not forgotten 
Where he wrestled with Mondamin ; 
Nor forgotten nor neglected 
Was the grave where lay Mondamin, 
Sleeping in the rain and sunshine. 
Where his scattered plumes and gar- 
ments 
Faded in the rain and sunshine. 
Day by day did Hiawatha 



Go to wait and watch beside it ; 
Kept the dark mould soft above it. 
Kept it clean from weeds and insects, 
Drove away, with scoffs and shoutings, 
Kahgahgee, the king of ravens. 

Till at length a small green feather 
From the earth shot slowly upward, 
Then another and another. 
And before the Summer ended 
Stood the maize in all its beauty, 
With its shining robes about it, 
And its long, soft, yellow tresses ; 
And in rapture Hiawatha 
Cried aloud, " It is Mondamin ! 
Yes, the friend of man, Mondamin ! " 

Then he called to old Nokomis 
And lagoo, the great boaster. 
Showed them where the maize was 

growing. 
Told them of his wondrous vision, 
Of his wrestling and his triumph, 
Of this new gift to the nations, 
Which should be their food forever. 
And still later, when the Autumn 

nged the 

yellow. 

And the soft and juicy kernels 
Grew like wampum hard and yellow, 
Then the ripened ears he gathered. 
Stripped the withered husks from off 

them. 
As he once had stripped the wrestler, 
Gave the first Feast of Mondamin, 
And made known unto the people 
This new gift of the Great Spirit. 

VI. 

HIAWATHA'S FRIENDS. 

Two good friends had Hiawatha, 
Singled out from all the others. 
Bound to him in closest union, 
And to whom he gave the right hand 
Of his heart, in joy and sorrow : 
Chibiabos, the musician. 
And the very strong man, Kwasind. 
Straight between them ran the path- 
way. 
Never grew the grass upon it ; 



282 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



Singing birds, that utter falsehoods, 
Story-tellers, mischief-makers, 
Found no eager ear to listen, 
Could not breed ill-will between them, 
For they kept each other's counsel, 
Spake with naked hearts together, 
Pondering much and much contriving 
How the tribes of men might prosper. 

Most beloved by Hiawatha 
Was the gentle Chibiabos, 
He the best of all musicians, 
He the sweetest of all singers. 
Beautiful and childlike was he, 
Brave as man is, soft as woman, 
Pliant as a wand of willow. 
Stately as a deer with antlers. 

When he sang, the village listened ; 
All the warriors gathered round him. 
All the women came to hear him ; 
Now he stirred their souls to passion. 
Now he melted them to pity. 

From the hollow reeds he fashioned 
Flutes so musical and mellow. 
That the brook, the Sebowisha, 
Ceased to murmur in the woodland. 
That the wood-birds ceased from sing- 

And the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 
Ceased his chatter in the oak-tree, 
And the rabbit, the Wabasso, 
Sat upright to look and listen. 

Yes, the brook, the Sebowisha, 
Pausing, said, "O Chibiabos, 
Teach my waves to flow in music, 
Softly as your words in singing ! " 

Yes, the blue-bird, the Owaissa, 
Envious, said, " O Chibiabos, 
Teach me tones as wild and wayward. 
Teach me songs as full of frenzy ! " 

Yes, the robin, the Opechee, 
Joyous, said, " O Chibiabos, 
Teach me tones as sweet and tender. 
Teach me songs as full of gladness ! " 

And the whippoorwill ,Wawonaissa, 
Sobbing, said, " O Chibiabos, 
Teach me tones as melancholy. 
Teach me songs as full of sadness ! " 

All the many sounds of nature 
Borrowed sweetness from his singing ; 
All the hearts of men were softened 



By the pathos of his music ; 
For he sang of peace and freedom, 
Sang of beauty, love, and longing; 
Sang of death, and life undying 
In the Islands of the Blessed, 
In the kingdom of Ponemah, 
In the land of the Hereafter. 

Very dear to Hiawatha 
Was the gentle Chibiabos, 
He the best of all musicians. 
He the sweetest of all singers ; 
For his gentleness he loved him, 
And the magic of his singing. 

Dear, too, unto Hiawatha 
Was the very strong man, Kwasind, 
He the strongest of all mortals. 
He the mightiest among many ; 
For his very strength he loved him, 
For his strength allied to goodness. 

Idle in his youth was Kwasind, 
Very listless, dull, and dreamy. 
Never played with other children, 
Never fished and never hunted. 
Not like other children was he ; 
But they saw that much he fasted. 
Much his Manito entreated. 
Much besought his Guardian Spirit. 

" Lazy Kwasind !" said his mother, 
"In my work you never help me ! 
In the Summer you are roaming 
Idly in the fields and forests ; 
In the Winter you are cowering 
O'er the firebrands in the wigwam ! 
In the coldest days of Winter 
I must break the ice for fishing ; 
With my nets you never help me ! 
At the door my nets are hanging. 
Dripping, freezing with the water ; 
Go and wring them, Yenadizze ! 
Go and dry them in the sunshine ! " 

Slowly, from the ashes, Kwasind 
Rose, but made no angry answer ; 
From the lodge went forth in silence, 
Took the nets, that hung together. 
Dripping, freezing at the doorway ; 
Like a wisp of straw he wrung them, 
Like a wisp of straw he broke them, 
Could not wring them without break- 
ings 
Such the strength was in his fingers. 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



283 



" Lazy Kwasind ! " said his father, 
" In the hunt you never help me ; 
Every bow you touch is broken, 
Snapped asunder every arrow ; 
Yet come with me to the forest, 
You shall bring the hunting home- 
ward." 
Down a narrow pass they wandered, 
Where a brooklet led them onward, 
Where the trail of deer and bison 
Marked the soft mud on the margin, 
Till they found all further passage 
Shut against them, barred securely 
By the trunks of trees uprooted, 
Lying lengthwise, lying crosswise, 
And forbidding further passage. 
" We must go back," said the old 
man, 
" O'er these logs we cannot clamber ; 
Not a woodchuck could get through 

them, 
Not a squirrel clamber o'er them ! " 
And straightway his pipe he lighted. 
And sat down to smoke and ponder. 
But before his pipe was finished, 
Lo ! the path was cleared before him ; 
All the trunks had Kwasind lifted. 
To the right hand, to the left hand, 
Shot the pine-trees swift as arrows, 
Hurled the cedars light as lances. 
" Lazy Kwasind ! " said the young 
men. 
As they sported in the meadow ; 
" Why stand idly looking at us. 
Leaning on the rock behind you ? 
Come and wrestle with the others, 
Let us pitch the quoit together ! " 
Lazy Kwasind made no answer, 
To their challenge made no answer, 
Only rose, and, slowly turning, 
Seized the huge rock in his fingers. 
Tore it from its deep foundation, 
Poised it in the air a moment, 
Pitched it sheer into the river, 
Sheer into the swift Pauwating, 
Where it still is seen in Summer. 

Once as down that foaming river, 
Down the rapids of Pauwating, 
Kwasind sailed with his companions. 
In the stream he saw a beaver, 



Saw Ahmeek, the King of Beavers, 
Struggling with the rushing currents, 
Rising, sinking in the water. 

Without speaking, without pausing, 
Kwasind leaped into the river, 
Plunged beneath the bubbhng surface, 
Through the whirlpools chased the 

beaver, 
Followed him among the islands, 
Stayed so long beneath the water. 
That his terrified companions 
Cried, " Alas ! good-by to Kwasind ! 
We shall never more see Kwasind ! " 
But he reappeared triumphant, 
And upon his shining shoulders 
Brought the beaver, dead and drip- 
ping, 
Brought the King of all the Beavers. 

And these two, as I have told you. 
Were the friends of Hiawatha, 
Chibiabos, the musician. 
And the very strong man, Kwasind. 
Long they lived in peace together, 
Spake with naked hearts together, 
Pondering much and much contriving 
How the tribes of men might prosper. 

VII. 

HIAWATHA'S SAILING. 

"Give me of your bark, O Birch- 
Tree ! 
Of your yellow bark, O Birch-Tree ! 
Growing by the rushing river. 
Tall and stately in the valley ! 
I a light canoe will build me, 
Build a swift Cheemaun for sailing. 
That shall float upon the river. 
Like a yellow leaf in Autumn, 
Like a yellow water-lily ! 

"Lay aside your cloak, O Birch- 
Tree ! 
Lay aside your white-skin wrapper, 
For the summer-time is coming. 
And the sun is warm in heaven, 
And you need no white-skin wrapper ! " 

Thus aloud cried Hiawatha 
In the solitary forest, 
By the rushing Taquamenaw, 



284 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



When the birds were singing gayly, 
In the Moon of Leaves were singing, 
And the sun, from sleep awaking, 
Started up and said, " Behold me ! 
Geezis, the great Sun, behold me ! " 
And the tree with all its branches 
Rustled in the breeze of morning, 
Saying, with a sigh of patience, 
" Take my cloak, O Hiawatha ! " 

With his knife the tree he girdled ; 
Just beneath its lowest branches, 
Just above the roots, he cut it, 
Till the sap came oozing outward ; 
Down the trunk, from top to bottom, 
Sheer he cleft the bark asunder. 
With a wooden wedge he raised it, 
Stripped it from the trunk unbroken. 
" Give me of your boughs, O Cedar ! 
Of your strong and pliant branches, 
My canoe to make more steady. 
Make more strong and firm beneath 
me ! " 
Through the summit of the Cedar 
Went a sound, a cry of horror, 
Went a murmur of resistance ; 
But it whispered, bending downward, 
" Take my boughs, O Hiawatha ! " 
Down he hewed the boughs of 
cedar, 
Shaped them straightway to a frame- 
work, 
Like two bows he formed and shaped 

them, 
Like two bended bows together. 
" Give me of your roots, O Tama- 
rack ! 
Of your fibrous roots, O Larch-Tree ! 
My canoe to bind together. 
So to bind the ends together 
That the water may not enter, 
That the river may not wet me ! " 

And the Larch, with all its fibres. 
Shivered in the air of morning, 
Touched his forehead with its tassels, 
Said, with one long sigh of sorrow, 
" Take them all, O Hiawatha ! " 

From the earth he tore the fibres. 
Tore the tough roots of the Larch- 
Tree, 
Closely sewed the bark together, 



Bound it closely to the framework. 

'• Give me of your balm, O Fir-Tree I 
Of your balsam and your resin. 
So to close the seams together 
That the water may not enter. 
That the river n>ay not wet me ! " 

And the Fir-Tree, tall and sombre, 
Sobbed through all its robes of dark- 
ness. 
Rattled like a shore with pebbles, 
Answered wailing, answered weeping, 
" Take my balm, O Hiawatha ! " 

And he took the tears of balsam, 
Took the resin of the Fir-Tree, 
Smeared therewith each seam and 

fissure. 
Made each crevice safe from water. 
" Give me of your quills, O Hedge- 
hog ! 
All your quills, O Kagh, the Hedge- 
hog! 
I will make a necklace of them. 
Make a girdle for my beauty. 
And two stars to deck her bosom ! " 
From a hollow tree the Hedgehog 
With his sleepy eyes looked at him, 
Shot his shining quills, like arrows, 
Saying, with a drowsy murmur. 
Through the tangle of his whiskers, 
" Take my quills, O Hiawatha ! " 
From the ground the quills he 
gathered, 
All the little shining arrows, 
Stained them red and blue and yel- 
low. 
With the juice of roots and berries ; 
Into his canoe he wrought them. 
Round its waist a shining girdle. 
Round its bows a gleaming neck- 
lace. 
On its breast two stars resplendent. 

Thus the Birch-Canoe was builded 
In the valley, by the river. 
In the bosom of the forest ; 
And the forest's life was in it, 
All its mystery and its magic. 
All the lightness of the birch-tree, 
All the toughness of the cedar, 
All the larch's supple sinews ; 
And it floated on the river 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



285 



Like a yellow leaf in Autumn, 
Like a yellow water-lily. 

Paddles none had Hiawatha, 
Paddles none he had or needed, 
For his thoughts as paddles served 

him, 
And his wishes served to guide him ; 
Swift or slow at will he glided, 
Veered to right or left at pleasure. 

Then he called aloud to Kwasind, 
To his friend, the strong man, 

Kwasind, 
Saying, " Help me clear this river 
Of its sunken logs and sand-bars." 

Straight into the river Kwasind 
Plunged as if he were an otter, 
Dived as if he were a beaver. 
Stood up to his waist in water, 
To his arm-pits in the river, 
Swam and shouted in the river. 
Tugged at sunken logs and branches. 
With his hands he scooped the sand- 
bars. 
With his feet the ooze and tangle. 

And thus sailed my Hiawatha 
Down the rushing Taquamenaw, 
Sailed through all its bends and 

windings. 
Sailed through all its deeps and 

shallows. 
While his friend, the strong man, 

Kwasind 
Swam the deeps, the shallows waded. 
Up and down the river went they, 
In and out among its islands, 
Cleared its bed of root and sand-bar. 
Dragged the dead trees from its 

channel. 
Made its passage safe and certain, 
Made a pathway for the people, 
From its springs among the moun- 
tains, 
To the waters of Pauwating, 
To the bay of Taquamenaw. 

VIIL 

HIAWATHA'S FISHING. 

Forth upon the Gitche Gumee, 
On the shining Big-Sea- Water, 



With his fishing-line of cedar, 
Of the twisted bark of cedar, 
Forth to catch the sturgeon Nahma, 
Mishe-Nahma, King of Fishes, 
In his birch-canoe exulting. 
All alone went Hiawatha. 

Through the clear, transparent 
water 
He could see the fishes swimming 
Far down in the depths below him ; 
See the yellow perch, the Sahwa, 
Like a sunbeam in the water. 
See the Shawgashee, the craw-fish, 
Like a spider on the bottom. 
On the white and sandy bottom. 

At the stern sat Hiawatha, 
With his fishing-line of cedar ; 
In his plumes the breeze of morning 
Played as in the hemlock branches ; 
On the bows, with tail erected. 
Sat the squirrel, Adjidaumo ; 
In his fur the breeze of morning 
Played as in the prairie grasses. 

On the white sand of the bottom 
Lay the monster Mishe-Nahma, 
Lay the sturgeon. King of Fishes ; 
Through his gills he breathed the 

water. 
With his fins he fanned and win- 
nowed, 
With his tail he swept the sand-floor. 

There he lay in all his armor ; 
On each side a shield to guard him, 
Plates of bone upon his forehead, 
Down his sides and back and shoul- 
ders 
Plates of bone with spines projecting ! 
Painted was he with his war-paints, 
Stripes of yellow, red, and azure, 
Spots of brown and spots of sable ; 
And he lay there on the bottom, 
Fanning with his fins of purple, 
As above him Hiawatha 
In his birch-canoe came sailing. 
With his fishing-line of cedar. 

"Take my bait!" cried Hiawatha, 
Down into the depths beneath him, 
"Take my bait, O Sturgeon, Nahma ! 
Come up from below the water. 
Let us see which is the stronger ! " 



286 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



And he dropped his line of cedar 
Through the clear, transparent water, 
Waited vainly for an answer, 
Long sat waiting for an answer, 
And repeating loud and louder, 
" Take my bait, O King of Fishes ! " 

Quiet lay the sturgeon, Nahma, 
Fanning slowly in the water, 
Looking up at Hiawatha, 
Listening to his call and clamor, 
His unnecessary tumult. 
Till he wearied of the shouting ; 
And he said to the Kenozha, 
To the pike, the Maskenozha, 
" Take the bait of this rude fellow, 
Break the line of Hiawatha ! " 

In his fingers Hiawatha 
Felt the loose line jerk and tighten ; 
As he drew it in, he tugged so 
That the birch-canoe stood endwise. 
Like a birch log in the water. 
With the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 
Perched and frisking on the summit. 

Full of scorn was Hiawatha 
When he saw the fish rise upward, 
Saw the pike, the Maskenozha, 
Coming nearer, nearer to him, 
And he shouted through the water, 
*' Esa ! esa ! shame upon you ! 
You are but the pike, Kenozha, 
You are not the fish I wanted. 
You are not the King of Fishes !" 

Reeling downward to the bottom 
Sank the pike in great confusion. 
And the mighty sturgeon, Nahma, 
Said to Ugudwash, the sun-fish. 
To the bream, with scales of crimson, 
" Take the bait of this great boaster. 
Break the line of Hiawatha ! " 

Slowly upward, wavering, gleaming. 
Rose the Ugudwash, the sun-fish, 
Seized the line of Hiawatha, 
Swung with all his weight upon it, 
Made a whirlpool in the water. 
Whirled the birch-canoe in circles. 
Round and round in gurgling eddies. 
Till the circles in the water 
Reached the far-off sandy beaches. 
Till the water-flags and rushes 
Nodded on the distant margins. 



But when Hiawatha saw him 
Slowly rising through the water, 
Lifting up his disk refulgent, 
Loud he shouted in derision, 
" Esa ! esa ! shame upon you ! 
You are Ugudwash, the sun-fish. 
You are not the fish I wanted. 
You are not the King of Fishes ! " 
Slowly downward, wavering, gleam- 
ing, 
Sank the Ugudwash, the sun-fish. 
And again the sturgeon, Nahma, 
Heard the shout of Hiawatha, 
Heard his challenge of defiance, 
The unnecessary tum.ult. 
Ringing far across the water. 

From the white sand of the bottom 
Up he rose with angry gesture. 
Quivering in each nerve and fibre. 
Clashing all his plates of armor, 
Gleaming bright with all his war- 
paint ; 
In his wrath he darted upward, 
Flashing leaped into the sunshine. 
Opened his great jaws, and swallowed 
Both canoe and Hiawatha. 

Down into that darksome cavern 
Plunged the headlong Hiawatha, 
As a log on some black river 
Shoots and plunges down the rapids, 
Found himself in utter darkness. 
Groped about in helpless wonder. 
Till he felt a great heart beating, 
Throbbing in that utter darkness. 

And he smote it in his anger. 
With his fist, the heart of Nahma, 
Felt the mighty King of Fishes 
Shudder through each nerve and fibre, 
Heard the water gurgle round him 
As he leaped and staggered through it. 
Sick at heart, and faint and weary. 

Crosswise then did Hiawatha 
Drag his birch-canoe for safety. 
Lest from out the jaws of Nahma, 
In the turmoil and confusion. 
Forth he might be hurled and perish. 
And the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 
Frisked and chattered very gayly. 
Toiled and tugged with Hiawatha 
Till the labor was completed. 



.M. 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



287 



Then said Hiawatha to him, 
" O my little friend, the squirrel, 
Bravely have you toiled to help me ; 
Take the thanks of Hiawatha, 
And the name which now he gives 

you ; 
For hereafter and forever 
Boys shall call you Adjidaumo, 
Tail-in-air the boys shall call you ! " 

And again the sturgeon, Nahma, 
Gasped and quivered in the water. 
Then was still, and drifted landward 
Till he grated on the pebbles, 
Till the listening Hiawatha 
Heard him grate upon the margin, 
Felt him strand upon the pebbles. 
Knew that Nahma, King of Fishes, 
Lay there dead upon the margin. 

Then he heard a clang and flap- 
ping' 
As of many wings assembling. 
Heard a screaming and confusion, 
As of birds of prey contending. 
Saw a gleam of light above him, 
Shining through the ribs of Nahma, 
Saw the glittering eyes of sea-gulls, 
Of Kayoshk, the sea-gulls, peering, 
Gazing at him through the opening, 
Heard them saying to each other, 
"'T is our brother, Hiawatha ! " 

And he shouted from below them, 
Cried exulting from the caverns : 
" O ye sea-gulls ! O my brothers ! 
I have slain the sturgeon, Nahma ; 
Make the rifts a little larger. 
With your claws the openings widen, 
Set me free from this dark prison. 
And henceforward and forever 
Men shall speak of your achieve- 
ments, 
Calling you Kayoshk, the sea-gulls, 
Yes, Kayoshk, the Noble Scratch- 
ers ! " 

And the wild and clamorous sea- 
gulls 
Toiled with beak and claws together, 
Made the rifts and openings wider 
In the mighty ribs of Nahma, 
And from peril and from prison, 
From the body of the sturgeon, 



From the peril of the water. 
They released my Hiawatha. 

He was standing near his wigwam 
On the margin of the water. 
And he called to old Nokomis, 
Called and beckoned to Nokomis, 
Pointed to the sturgeon, Nahma, 
Lying lifeless on the pebbles. 
With the sea-gulls feeding on him. 
. " I have slain the Mishe-Nahma, 
Slain the King of Fishes ! " said he; 
" Look ! the sea-gulls feed upon him, 
Yes, my friend Kayoshk, the sea-gulls 
Drive them not away, Nokomis, 
They have saved me from great 

peril 
In the body of the sturgeon ; 
Wait until their meal is ended. 
Till their craws are full with feast- 
ing, 
Till they homeward fly, at sunset. 
To their nests among the marshes ; 
Then bring all your pots and kettles, 
And make oil for us in Winter." 

And she waited till the sun set, 
Till the pallid moon, the night-sun, 
Rose above the tranquil water, 
Till Kayoshk, the sated sea-gulls, 
From their banquet rose with clamor, 
And across the fiery sunset 
Winged their way to far-off" islands, 
To their nests among the rushes. 

To his sleep went Hiawatha, 
And Nokomis to her labor. 
Toiling patient in the moonlight, 
Till the sun and moon changed 

places. 
Till the sky was red with sunrise, 
And Kayoshk, the hungry sea-gulls. 
Came back from the reedy islands. 
Clamorous for their morning banquet. 
Three whole days and nights alter- 
nate 
Old Nokomis and the sea-gulls 
Stripped the oily flesh of Nahma, 
Till the waves washed through the 

rib-bones. 
Till the sea-gulls came no longer, 
And upon the sands lay nothing 
But the skeleton of Nahma. 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



IX. 

HIAWATHA AND THE PEARL- 
FEATHER. 

On the shores of Gitche Gumee, 
Of the shining Big-Sea-Water, 
Stood Nokomis, the old woman, 
Pointing with her finger westward, 
O'er the water pointing westward, 
To the purple clouds of sunset. 

Fiercely the red sun descending 
Burned his way along the heavens, 
Set the sky on fire behind him, 
As war-parties, when retreating. 
Burn the prairies on their war-trail ; 
And the moon, the Night-Sun, east- 
ward, 
Suddenly starting from his ambush. 
Followed fast those bloody footprints. 
Followed in that fiery war-trail. 
With its glare upon its features. 

And Nokomis, the old woman. 
Pointing with her finger westward, 
Spake these words to Hiawatha : 
"Yonder dwells the great Pearl- 
Feather, 
Megissogwon, the Magician, 
Manito of Wealth and Wampum, 
Guarded by his fiery serpents. 
Guarded by the black pitch-water. 
You can see his fiery serpents. 
The Kenabeek, the great serpents, 
Coiling, playing in the water ; 
You can see the black pitch-water 
Stretching far away beyond them, 
To the purple clouds of sunset ! 

•' He it was who slew my father, 
Bv his wicked wiles and cunning. 
When he from the moon descended, 
When he came on earth to seek me. 
He, the mightiest of Magicians, 
Sends the fever from the marshes, 
Sends the pestilential vapors. 
Sends the poisonous exhalations. 
Sends the white fog from the fen- 
lands. 
Sends disease and death among us ! 

" Take your bow, O Hiawatha, 
Take your arrows, jasper-headed, 



Take your war-club, Puggawaugun, 
And your mittens, Minjekahwun, 
And your birch-canoe for sailing, 
And the oil of Mishe-Nahma, 
So to smear its sides, that swiftly 
You may pass the black pitch-water ; 
Slay this merciless magician. 
Save the people from the fever 
That he breathes across the fen- 
lands. 
And avenge my father's murder ! " 

Straightway then my Hiawatha 
Armed himself with all his war-gear, 
Launched his birch-canoe for sailing; 
With his palm its sides he patted, 
Said with glee, " Cheemaun, my dar- 
ling, 
O my Birch-Canoe ! leap forward. 
Where you see the fiery serpents. 
Where you see the black pitch- 
water ! " 

Forward leaped Cheemaun exulting, 
And the noble Hiawatha 
Sang his war-song wild and woful. 
And above him the war-eagle, 
The Keneu, the great war-eagle. 
Master of all fowls with feathers. 
Screamed and hurtled through the 
heavens. 

Soon he reached the fiery serpents, 
The Kenabeek, the great serpents, 
Lying huge upon the water, 
Sparkling, rippling in the water, 
Lying coiled across the passage. 
With their blazing crests uplifted. 
Breathing fiery fogs and vapors. 
So that none could pass beyond them. 

But the fearless Hiawatha 
Cried aloud, and spake in this wise : 
'" Let me pass my way, Kenabeek, 
Let me go upon my journey ! " 
And they answered, hissing fiercely. 
With their fiery breath made answer : 
" Back, go back ! O Shaugodaya ! 
Back to old Nokomis, Faint-heart!" 

Then the angry Hiawatha 
Raised his mighty bow of ash-tree, 
Seized his arrows, jasper-headed. 
Shot them fast among the serpents ; 
Every twanging of the bow-string 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



289 



Was a war-cry and a death-cry, 
Every whizzing of an arrow 
Was a death-song of Kenabeek. 

Weltering in the bloody water, 
Dead lay all the fiery serpents, 
And among them Hiawatha 
Harmless sailed, and cried exulting : 
*' Onward, O Cheemaun, my darling ! 
Onward to the blacii pitch-water!" 

Then he took the oil of Nahma, 
/Vnd the bows and sides anointed, 
Smeared them well with oil, that 

swiftly 
He might pass the black pitch-water. 

All night long he sailed upon it. 
Sailed upon that sluggish water. 
Covered with its mould of ages, 
Black with rotting water-rushes, 
Rank with flags and leaves of lilies. 
Stagnant, lifeless, dreary, dismal, 
Lighted by the shimmering moon- 
light' . 
And by will-oMhe-wisps illumined. 

Fires by ghosts of dead men kindled, 
In their weary night-encampments. 

All the air was white with moon- 
light, 
All the water black with shadow. 
And around him the Suggema, 
The mosquitos, sang their war-song. 
And the fire-flies, Wah-wah-taysee, 
Waved their torches to mislead him ; 
And the bull-frog, the Dahinda, 
Thrust his head into the moonlight. 
Fixed his yellow eyes upon him. 
Sobbed and sank beneath the sur- 
face ; 
And anon a thousand whistles. 
Answered over all the fen-lands, 
And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
Far oiT on the reedy margin. 
Heralded the hero's coming. 

Westward thus fared Hiawatha, 
Toward the realm of Megissogwon, 
Toward the land of the Pearl-Feather, 
Till the level moon stared at him. 
In his face stared pale and haggard, 
Till the sun was hot behind him. 
Till it burned upon his shoulders, 
And before him on the upland 



He could see the Shining Wigwam 
Of the Manito of Wampum, 
Of the mightiest of Magicians. 

Then once more Cheemaun he 
patted. 
To his birch-canoe said, "Onward!" 
And it stirred in all its fibres. 
And with one great bound of triumph 
Leaped across the water-liUes, 
Leaped through tangled flags and 

rushes. 
And upon the beach beyond them 
Dry-shod landed Hiawatha. 

Straight he took his bow of ash- 
tree. 
On the sand one end he rested, 
With his knee he pressed the middle, 
Stretched the taithful bow-string 

tighter. 
Took an arrow, jasper-headed, 
Shot it at the Shining Wigwam, 
Sent it singing as a herald. 
As a bearer of his message. 
Of his challenge loud and lofty : 
'• Come forth from your lodge, Pearl- 
Feather ! 
Hiawatha waits your coming ! " 

Straightway from the Shining Wig- 
wam 
Came the mighty Megissogwon, 
Tall of stature, broad of shoulder. 
Dark and terrible in aspect. 
Clad from head to foot in wampum. 
Armed with all his warlike weapons. 
Painted like the sky of morning. 
Streaked with crimson, blue, and yel- 
low. 
Crested with great eagle-feathers. 
Streaming upward, streaming out- 
ward. 
"Well I know you, Hiawatha!" 
Cried he in a voice of thunder, 
In a tone of loud derision. 
" Hasten back, O Shaugodaya! 
Hasten back among the women. 
Back to old Nokomis, Faint-heart ! 
I will slay you as you stand there, 
As of old I slew her father ! " 

But my Hiawatha answered, 
Nothing daunted, fearing nothing : 



290 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



" Big words do not smite like war- 
clubs, 
Boastful breath is not a bow-string, 
Taunts are not so sharp as arrows. 
Deeds are better things than words 

are. 
Actions mightier than boastings ! " 

Then began the greatest battle 
That the sun had ever looked on, 
That the war-birds ever witnessed. 
All a Summer's day it lasted. 
From the sunrise to the sunset ; 
For the shafts of Hiawatha 
Harmless hit the shirt of wampum, 
Harmless fell the blows he dealt it 
With his mittens, Minjekahwun, 
Harmless fell the heavy war-club ; 
It could dash the rocks asunder. 
But it could not break the meshes 
Of that magic shirt of wampum. 

Till at sunset Hiawatha, 
Leaning on his bow of ash-tree, 
Wounded, weary, and desponding. 
With his mighty war-club broken. 
With his mittens torn and tattered, 
And three useless arrows only. 
Paused to rest beneath a pine-tree. 
From whose branches trailed the 

mosses. 
And whose trunk was coated over 
With the Dead-man's Moccasin- 
leather, 
With the fungus white and yellow. 
Suddenly from the boughs above 
him 
Sang the Mama, the woodpecker : 
" Aim your arrows, Hiawatha, 
At the head of Megissogwon, 
Strike the tuft of hair upon it, 
At their roots the long black tresses ; 
There alone can he be wounded ! " 
Winged with feathers, tipped with 
jasper. 
Swift flew Hiawatha's arrow. 
Just as Megissogwon, stooping. 
Raised a heavy stone to throw it. 
Full upon the crown it struck him, 
At the roots of his long tresses, 
And he reeled and staggered for- 
ward, 



Plunging like a wounded bison, 
Yes, like Pezhekee, the bison, 
When the snow is on the prairie. 

Swifter flew the second arrow, 
In the pathway of the other, 
Piercing deeper than the other. 
Wounding sorer than the other; 
And the knees of Megissogwon 
Shook like windy reeds beneath him, 
Bent and trembled like the rushes. 

But the third and latest arrow 
Swiftest flew, and wounded sorest, 
And the mighty Megissogwon 
Saw the fiery eyes of Pauguk, 
Saw the eyes of Death glare at him. 
Heard his voice call in the dark- 
ness ; 
At the feet of Hiawatha 
Lifeless lay the great Pearl-Feather, 
Lay the mightiest of Magicians. 

Then the grateful Hiawatha 
Called the Mama, the woodpecker. 
From his perch among the branches 
Of the melancholy pine-tree. 
And, in honor of his service. 
Stained with blood the tuft of feathers 
On the little head of Mama; 
Even to this day he wears it. 
Wears the tuft of crimson feathers, 
As a symbol of his service. 

Then he stripped the shirt of wam- 
pum 
From the back of Megissogwon, 
As a trophy of the battle. 
As a signal of his conquest. 
On the shore he left the body. 
Half on land and half in water. 
In the sand his feet were buried. 
And his face was in the water. 
And above him wheeled and clamored 
The Keneu, the great war-eagle. 
Sailing round in narrower circles. 
Hovering nearer, nearer, nearer. 

From the wigwam Hiawatha 
Bore the wealth of Megissogwon, 
All his wealth of skins and wampum, 
Furs of bison and of beaver. 
Furs of sable and of ermine. 
Wampum belts and strings and 
pouches, 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



291 



Quivers wrought with beads of wam- 
pum, 
Filled with arrows, silver-headed. 

Homeward then he sailed exulting, 
Homeward through the black pitch- 
water. 
Homeward through the weltering 

serpents, 
With the trophies of the battle, 
With a shout and song of triumph. 
On the shore stood old Nokomis, 
On the shore stood Chibiabos, 
And the very strong man, Kwasind, 
Waiting for the hero's coming, 
Listening to his song of triumph. 
And the people of the village 
Welcomed him with songs and dances, 
Made a joyous feast, and shouted : 
" Honor be to Hiawatha ! 
He has slain the great Pearl-Feather, 
Slain the mightiest of Magicians, 
Him, who sent the fiery fever. 
Sent the white fog from the fen-lands, 
Sent disease and death among us !" 

Ever dear to Hiawatha 
Was the memory of Mama ! 
And in token of his friendship, 
As a mark of his remembrance, 
He adorned and decked his pipe- 
stem 
With the crimson tuft of feathers. 
With the blood-red crest of Mama. 
But the wealth of Megissogwon, 
All the trophies of the battle, 
He divided with his people, 
Shared it equally among them. 

X. 

HIAWATHA'S WOOING. 

" As unto th^ bow the cordjs, 

So ujito the man is woman : 

Though she bends him, she obeys 
him, 

Though she draws him, yet she fol- 
lows, 

Useless each w ithout the other ! " 
Thus the youthful Hiawatha 

Said within himself and pondered, 



Much perplexed by various feelings. 
Listless, longing, hoping, fearing, 
Dreaming still of Minnehaha, 
Of the lovely Laughing Water, 
In the land of the Dacotahs. 

" Wed a maiden of your people," 
Warning said the old Nokomis ; 
" Go not eastward, go not westward. 
For a stranger, whom we know not ! 
Like a fire upon the hearth-stone 
Is a neighbor's homely daughter. 
Like the starlight or the moonlight 
Is the handsomest of strangers !" 

Thus dissuading spake Nokomis, 
And my Hiawatha answered 
Only this : " Dear old Nokomis, 
Very pleasant is the firelight, 
But'l like the starlight better, 
Better do I like the moonlight ! " 

Gravely then said old Nokomis : 
" Bring not here an idle maiden. 
Bring not here a useless woman. 
Hands unskilful, feet unwilling ; 
Bring a wife with nimble fingers, 
Heart and hand that move together, 
Feet that run on willing errands !" 

Smiling answered Hiawatha: 
" In the land of the Dacotahs 
Lives the Arrow-maker's daughter, 
Minnehaha, Laughing Water, 
Handsomest of all the women. 
I will bring her to your wigwam, 
She shall run upon your errands, 
Be your starlight, moonlight, firelight, 
Be the sunlight of my people ! " 

Still dissuading said Nokomis : 
" Bring not to my lodge a stranger 
From the land of the Dacotahs ! 
Very fierce are the Dacotahs, 
Often is there war between us. 
There are feuds yet unforgotten, 
Wounds that ache and still may 
open ! " 

Laughing answered Hiawatha : 
" For that reason, if no other, 
Would I wed the fair Dacotah, 
That our tribes might be united. 
That old feuds might be forgotten. 
And old wounds be healed forever ! " 

Thus departed Hiawatha 



292 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



To the land of the Dacotahs, 
To the land of handsome women ; 
Striding over moor and meadow, 
Through interminable forests, 
Through uninterrupted silence. 

With his moccasins of magic, 
At each stride a mile he measured ; 
Yet the way seemed long before him, 
And his heart outran his footsteps ; 
And he journeyed without resting. 
Till he heard the cataract's laughter, 
Heard the Falls of Minnehaha 
Calling to him through the silence. 
"Pleasant is the sound!" he mur- 
mured, 
" Pleasant is the voice that calls me !" 

On the outskirts of the forest, 
'Twixt the shadow and the sunshine. 
Herds of fallow deer were feeding, 
But they saw not Hiawatha; 
To his bow he whispered, "Fail not ! " 
To his arrow whispered, "Swerve 

not!" _ 
Sent it singing on its errand, 
To the red heart of the roebuck ; 
Threw the deer across his shoulder 
And sped forward without pausing. 

At the doorway of his wigwam 
Sat the ancient Arrow-maker, 
In the land of the Dacotahs, 
Making arrow-heads of jasper, 
Arrow-heads of chalcedony. 
At his side, in all her beauty. 
Sat the lovely Minnehaha, 
Sat his daughter, Laughing Water, 
Plaiting mats of flags and rushes ; 
Of the past the old man's thoughts 

were. 
And the maiden's of the future. 

He was thinking, as he sat there. 
Of the days when with such arrows 
He had struck the deer and bison. 
On the Muskoday, the meadow ; 
Shot the wild goose, flying southward. 
On the wing, the clamorous Wawa ; 
Thinking of the great war-parties, 
How they came to buy his arrows, 
Could not fight without his arrows. 
Ah, no more such noble warriors 
Could be found on earth as they were ; 



Now the men were all like women, 
Ohly used their tongues for weapons ! 

She was thinking of a hunter. 
From another tribe and country. 
Young and tall and very handsome. 
Who one morning, in the Spring-time, 
Came to buy her fathers arrows. 
Sat and rested in the wigwam, 
Lingered long about the doorway, 
Looking back as he departed. 
She had heard her father praise him, 
Praise his courage and his wisdom ; 
Would he come again for arrows 
To the Falls of Minnehaha ? 
On the mat her hands lay idle, 
And her eyes were very dreamy. 

Through their thoughts they heard 
a footstep. 
Heard a rustling in the branches, 
And with glowing cheek and forehead, 
With the deer upon his shoulders. 
Suddenly from out the woodlands 
Hiawatha stood before them. 

Straight the ancient Arrow-maker 
Looked up gravely from his labor. 
Laid aside the unfinished arrow, 
Bade him enter at the doorway. 
Saying, as he rose to meet him, 
" Hiawatha, you are welcome ! " 

At the feet of Laughing Water 
Hiawatha laid his burden, 
Threw the red deer from his shoulders ; 
And the maiden looked up at him. 
Looked up from her mat of rushes, 
Said with gentle look and accent, 
" You are welcome, Hiawatha ! " 

Very spacious was the wigwam, 
Made of deer-skin dressed and whit- 
ened. 
With the Gods of the Dacotahs 
Drawn and painted on its curtains. 
And so tall the doorway, hardly 
Hiawatha stooped to enter, 
Hardly touched his eagle -feat hers 
As he entered at the doorway. 

Then uprose the Laughing Water, 
From the ground fair Minnehaha 
Laid aside her mat unfinished, 
Brought forth food and set before 
them, 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



293 



Water brought them from the brook- 
let. 
Gave them food in earthen vessels, 
Gave them drink in bowls of bass- 
wood, 
Listened while the guest was speaking, 
Listened while her father answered, 
But not once her lips she opened, 
Not a single word she uttered. 

Yes, as in a dream she listened 
To the words of Hiawatha, 
As he talked of old Nokomis, 
Who had nursed him in his childhood, 
As he told of his companions, 
Chibiabos, the musician, 
And the very strong man, Kwasind, 
And of happiness and plenty 
In the land of the Ojibways, 
In the pleasant land and peaceful. 

" After many years of warfare, 
Many years of strife and bloodshed. 
There is peace between the Ojibways 
And the tribe of the Dacotahs/' 
Thus continued Hiawatha, 
And then added, speaking slowly, 
"That this peace may last forever, 
And our hands be clasped more 

closely, 
And our hearts be more united, 
Give me as my wife this maiden, 
Minnehaha, Laughing Water, 
Loveliest of Dacotah women ! " 

And the ancient Arrow-maker 
Paused a moment ere he answered, 
Smoked a little while in silence, 
Looked at Hiawatha proudly, 
Fondly looked at Laughing Water, 
And made answer very gravely : 
" Yes, if Minnehaha wishes ; 
Let your heart speak, Minnehaha!" 

And the lovely Laughing Water 
Seemed more lovely, as she stood 

there. 
Neither willing nor reluctant, 
As she went to Hiawatha, 
Softly took the seat beside him. 
While she said, and blushed to say it, 
" I will follow you, my husband ! " 

This was Hiawatha's wooing ! 
Thus it was he won the daughter 



Of the ancient Arrow-maker, 
In the land of the Dacotahs ! 

From the wigwam he departed. 
Leading with him Laughing Water ; 
Hand in hand they went together, 
Through the woodland and the 

meadow. 
Left the old man standing lonely 
At the doorway of his wigwam, 
Heard the Falls of Minnehaha 
Calling to them from the distance, 
Crying to them from afar off, 
"Fare thee well, O Minnehaha!" 

And the ancient Arrow-maker 
Turned again unto his labor. 
Sat down by his sunny doorway, 
Murmuring to himself, and saying: 
" Thus it is our daughters leave us, 
Those we love, and those who love 

us ! 
Just when they have learned to help 

us, 
When we are old and lean upon them, 
Comes a youth with flaunting feathers, 
With his flute of reeds, a stranger 
Wanders piping through the village, 
Beckons to the fairest maiden. 
And she follows where he leads her, 
Leaving all things for the stranger ! " 
Pleasant was the journey homeward, 
Through interminable forests, 
Over meadow, over mountain, 
Over river, hill, and hollow. 
Short it seemed to Hiawatha, 
Though they journeyed very slowly, 
Though his pace he checked and 

slackened 
To the steps of Laughing Water. 

Over wide and rushing rivers 
In his arms he bore the maiden ; 
Light he thought her as a feather, 
As the plume upon his head-gear ; 
Cleared the tangled pathway for her, 
Bent aside the swaying branches, 
Made at night a lodge of branches, 
And a bed with boughs of hemlock. 
And a fire before the doorway 
With the dry cones of the pine-tree. 
All the travelling winds went with 

them. 



294 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



O'er the meadow, through the forest ; 
All the stars of night looked at them, 
Watched with sleepless eyes their 

slumber ; 
From his ambush in the oak-tree 
Peeped the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 
Watched with eager eyes the lovers ; 
And the rabbit, the Wabasso, 
Scampered from the path before them, 
Peering, peeping from his burrow, 
Sat erect upon his haunches, 
Watched with curious eyes the lovers. 
Pleasant was the journey home- 
ward ! 
All the birds sang loud and sweetly 
Songs of happiness and heart's-ease ; 
Sang the blue-bird, the Owaissa, 
" Happy are you, Hiawatha, 
Having such a wife to love you ! " 
Sang the robin, the Opechee, 
"Happy are you, Laughing Water, 
Having such a noble husband ! " 

From the sky the sun benignant 
Looked upon them through the 

branches. 
Saying to them, " O my children. 
Love is sunshine, hate is shadow. 
Life is checkered shade and sun- 
shine, 
Rule by love, O Hiawatha ! " 

From the sky the moon looked at 
them. 
Filled the lodge with mystic splen- 
dors. 
Whispered to them, " O my children, 
Day is restless, night is quiet, 
Man imperious, woman feeble ; 
Half is mine, although I follow ; 
Rule by patience, Laughing Water ! " 
Thus it was they journeyed home- 
ward ; 
Thus it was that Hiawatha 
To the lodge of old Nokomis 
Brought the moonlight, starlight, fire- 

light. 
Brought the sunshine of his people, 
Minnehaha, Laughing Water, 
Handsomest of all the women 
In the land of the Dacotahs, 
In the land of handsome women. 



XL 

HIAWATHA'S WEDDING-FEAST. 

You shall hear how Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
How the handsome Yenadizze 
Danced at Hiawatha's wedding ; 
How the gentle Chibiabos, 
He the sweetest of musicians. 
Sang his songs of love and longing ; 
How lagoo, the great boaster. 
He the marvellous story-teller. 
Told his tales of strange adventure, 
That the feast might be more joyous, 
That the time might pass more gayly, 
And the guests be more contented. 

Sumptuous was the feast Nokomis 
Made at Hiawatha's wedding ; 
All the bowls were made of bass-wood, 
White and polished very smoothly, 
All the spoons of horn of bison. 
Black and polished very smoothly. 

She had sent through all the village 
Messengers with wands of willow, 
As a sign of invitation. 
As a token of the feasting ; 
And the wedding guests assembled, . 
Clad in all their richest raiment, 
Robes of fur and belts of wampum. 
Splendid with their paint and plumage, 
Beautiful with beads and tassels. 

First they ate the sturgeon, Nahma, 
And the pike, the Maskenozha, 
Caught and cooked by old Nokomis;: 
Then on pemican they feasted, 
Pemican and buffalo marrow. 
Haunch of deer and hump of bison, 
Yellow cakes of the Mondamin, 
And the wild rice of the river. 

But the gracious Hiawatha, 
And the lovely Laughing Water, 
And the careful old Nokomis, 
Tasted not the food before them. 
Only waited on the others. 
Only served their guests in silence. 

And when all the guests had fin- 
ished. 
Old Nokomis, brisk and busy. 
From an ample pouch of otter. 
Filled the red stone pipes for smoking 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



295 



With tobacco from the South-land, 
Mixed with bark of the red willow, 
And with herbs and leaves of fragrance. 
Then she said, '• O Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Dance for us your merry dances, 
Dance the Beggar's Dance to please us. 
That the feast may be more joyous, 
That the time may pass more gayly, 
And our guests be more contented ! " 
Then the handsome Pau-Puk-Kee- 
wis, 
He the idle Yenadizze, 
He the merry mischief-maker. 
Whom the people called the Storm- 
Fool, 
Rose among the guests assembled. 
Skilled was he in sports and pas- 
times. 
In the merry dance of snow-shoes, 
In the play of quoits and ball-play ; 
Skilled was he in games of hazard. 
In all games of skill and hazard, 
Pugasaing, the Bowl and Counters, 
Kuntassoo, the Game of Plum-stones. 
Though the warriors called him 
Faint-heart, 
Called him coward, Shaugodaya, 
Idler, gambler, Yenadizze, 
Little heeded he their jesting, 
Little cared he for their insults, 
For the women and the maidens 
Loved the handsome Pau-Puk-Kee 
wis. 
He was dressed in shirt of doe-skin, 
White and soft, and fringed with 

ermine. 
All inwrought with beads of wampum ; 
He was dressed in deer-skin leggins. 
Fringed with hedgehog quills and 

ermine. 
And in moccasins of buck-skin. 
Thick with quills and beads embroid- 
ered. 
On his head were plumes of swan's 

down. 
On his heels were tails of foxes, 
In one hand a fan of feathers, 
And a pipe was in the other. 

Barred with streaks of red and 
yellow, 



Streaks of blue and bright vermilion. 
Shone the face of Pau-Puk-Keewis. 
From his forehead fell his tresses, 
Smooth, and parted like a woman's, 
Shining bright with oil, and plaited. 
Hung with braids of scented grasses, 
As among the guests assembled, 
To the sound of flutes and singing. 
To the sound of drums and voices, 
Rose the handsome Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
And began his mystic dances. 

First he danced a solemn measure. 
Very slow in step and gesture. 
In and out among the pine-trees, 
Through the shadows and the sun- 
shine, 
Treading softly like a panther. 
Then more swiftly and still swifter, 
Whirling, spinning round in circles. 
Leaping o'er the guests assembled, 
Eddying round and round the wig- 
wam, 
Till the leaves went whirling with 

him. 
Till the dust and wind together 
Swept in eddies round about him. 

Then along the sandy margin 
Of the lake, the Big-Sea-Water, 
On he sped with frenzied gestures. 
Stamped upon the sand, and tossed it 
Wildly in the air around him ; 
Till the wind became a whirlwind, 
Till the sand was blown and sifted 
Like great snowdrifts o'er the land- 
scape. 
Heaping all the shores with Sand 

Dunes, 
Sand Hills of the Nagow Wudjoo! 

Thus the merry Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Danced his Beggar's Dance to please 

them. 
And, returning, sat down laughing 
There among the guests assembled, 
Sat and fanned himself serenely 
With his fan of turkey-feathers. 

Then they said to Chibiabos, 
To the friend of Hiawatha, 
To the sweetest of all singers, 
To the best of all musicians, 
" Sing to us, O Chibiabos ! 



296 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



Songs of love and songs of longing, 
That the feast may be more joyous, 
That the time may pass more gayly, 
And our guests be more contented !" 

And the gentle Chibiabos 
Sang in accents sweet and tender, 
Sang in tones of deep emotion, 
Songs of love and songs of longing; 
Looking still at Hiawatha, 
Looking at fair Laughing Water, 
Sang he softly, sang in this wise : 

" Onaway ! Awake, beloved ! 
Thou the wild-flower of the forest ! 
Thou the wild-bird of the prairie ! 
Thou with eyes so soft and fawn-like! 

" If thou only lookest at me, 
I am happy, I am happy, 
As the lilies of the prairie, 
When they feel the dew upon them ! 

" Sweet thy breath is as the fra- 
grance 
Of the wild-flowers in the morning, 
As their fragrance is at evening, 
In the Moon when leaves are falling. 

" Does not all the blood within me 
Leap to meet thee, leap to meet thee, 
As the springs to meet the sunshine, 
In the Moon when nights are bright- 
est ? 

"Onaway! my heart sings to thee. 
Sings with joy when thou art near me, 
As the sighing, singing branches 
In the pleasant Moon of Strawberries ! 

"When thou art not pleased, be- 
loved, 
Then my heart is sad and darkened, 
As the shining river darkens. 
When the clouds drop shadows on it ! 

" When thou smilest, my beloved. 
Then my troubled heart is brightened. 
As in sunshine gleam the ripples 
That the cold wind makes in rivers. 

" Smiles the earth, and smile the 
waters. 
Smile the cloudless skies above us, 
But I lose the way of smiling 
When thou art no longer near me ! 

" I myself, myself ! behold me ! 
Blood of my beating heart, behold 
me! 



O awake, awake, beloved ! 
Onaway ! awake, beloved ! " 

Thus the gentle Chibiabos 
Sang his song of love and longing ; 
And lagoo, the great boaster. 
He the marvellous story-teller. 
He the friend of old Nokomis, 
Jealous of the sweet musician. 
Jealous of the applause they gave him, 
Saw in all the eyes around him, 
Saw in all their looks and gestures. 
That the wedding guests assembled 
Longed to hear his pleasant stories, 
His immeasurable falsehoods. 

Very boastful was lagoo ; 
Never heard he an adventure 
But himself had met a greater; 
Never any deed of daring 
But himself had done a bolder; 
Never any marvellous story 
But himself could tell a stranger. 

Would you listen to his boasting, 
Would you only give him credence, 
No one ever shot an arrow 
Half so far and high as he had ; 
Ever caught so many fishes. 
Ever killed so many reindeer. 
Ever trapped so many beaver ! 

None could run so fast as he could, 
None could dive so deep as he could, 
None could swdm so far as he could ; 
None had made so many journeys, 
None had seen so many wonders. 
As this wonderful lagoo, 
As this marvellous story-teller ! 

Thus his name became a by-word 
And a jest among the people ; 
And whene'er a boastful hunter 
Praised his own address too highly, 
Or a warrior, home returning. 
Talked too muchof his achievements. 
All his hearers cried, " lagoo ! 
Here's lagoo come among us ! " 

He it was who carved the cradle 
Of the little Hiawatha, 
Carved its framework out of linden. 
Bound it strong with reindeer sinews ; 
He it was who taught him later 
How to make his bows and arrows. 
How to make the bows of ash-tree. 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



297 



And the arrows of the oak-tree. 
So among the guests assembled 
At my Hiawatha's wedding 
Sat lagoo, old and ugly, 
Sat the marvellous story-teller. 

And they said, " O good lagoo, 
Tell us now a tale of wonder, 
Tell us of some strange adventure, 
That the feast may be more joyous. 
That the time may pass more gayly. 
And our guests be more contented !" 

And lagoo answered straightway, 
^' You shall hear a tale of wonder. 
You shall hear the strange adven- 
tures 
Of Osseo, the Magician, 
From the Evening Star descended." 

XII. 

THE SON OF THE EVENING STAR. 

Can it be the sun descending 
O'er the level plain of water? 
Or the Red Swan floating, flying, 
Wounded by the magic arrow. 
Staining all the waves with crimson, 
With the crimson of its life-blood. 
Filling all the air with splendor, 
With the splendor of its plumage? 

Yes ; it is the sun descending, 
Sinking down into the water ; 
All the sky is stained with purple, 
All the water flushed with crimson ! 
No ; it is the Red Swan floating. 
Diving down beneath the water ; 
To the sky its wings are lifted, 
With its blood the waves are red- 
dened! 

Over it the Star of Evening 
Melts and trembles through the pur- 
ple. 
Hangs suspended in the twilight. 
No ; it is a bead of wampum 
On the robes of the Great Spirit, 
As he passes through the twilight, 
Walks in silence through the heav- 
ens ! 

This with joy beheld lagoo 
And he said in haste : " Behold it ! 



See the sacred Star of Evening ! 
You shall hear a tale of wonder, 
Hear the story of Osseo, 
Son of the Evening Star, Osseo ! 
"Once, in days no more remem- 
bered, 
Ages nearer the beginning, 
When the heavens were closer to us. 
And the Gods were more familiar, 
In the North-land lived a hunter, 
With ten young and comely daugh- 
ters. 
Tall and lithe as wands of willow; 
Only Oweenee, the youngest, 
She the wilful and the wayward. 
She the silent, dreamy maiden, 
Was the fairest of the sisters. 

"All these women married war- 
riors. 
Married brave and haughty husbands 5 
Only Oweenee, the youngest. 
Laughed and flouted all her lovers, 
All her young and handsome suitors. 
And then married old Osseo, 
Old Osseo, poor and ugly. 
Broken with age and weak with cough- 
ing. 
Always coughing like a squirrel. 
" Ah, but beautiful within him 
Was the spirit of Osseo, 
From the Evening Star descended. 
Star of Evening, Star of Woman, 
Star of tenderness and passion ! 
All its fire was in his bosom. 
All its beauty in his spirit, 
All its mystery in his being, 
All its splendor in his language ! 
"And her lovers, the rejected, 
Handsome men with belts of wam- 
pum, 
Handsome men with paint and feath- 
ers. 
Pointed at her in derision, 
Followed her with jest and laughter. 
But she said : ' I care not for you, 
Care not for your belts of wampum, 
Care not for your paint and feathers. 
Care not for your jests and laughter ; 
I am happy with Osseo ! ' 

" Once, to some great feast invited. 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



Through the damp and dusk of even- 
ing 
Walked together the ten sisters, 
Walked together with their husbands ; 
Slowly followed old Osseo, 
With fair Oweenee beside him ; 
All the others chatted gayly, 
These two only walked in silence. 

"At the western sky Osseo 
Gazed intent, as if imploring, 
Often stopped and gazed imploring 
At the trembling Star of Evening, 
At the tender Star of Woman ; 
And they heard him murmur softly, 
' Ah, showain nemeshin. Nosa I 
Pity, pity me, my father ! ' 

" ' Listen ! ' said the eldest sister, 
'• He is praying to his father ! 
What a pity that the old man 
Does not stumble in the pathway, 
Does not break his neck by falling ! ' 
And they laughed till all the forest 
Rang with their unseemly laughter. 

"On their pathway through the 
woodlands 
Lay an oak, by storms uprooted, 
Lay the great trunk of an oak-tree, 
Buried half in leaves and mosses, 
Mouldering, crumbling,' huge, and 

hollow. 
And Osseo, when he saw it. 
Gave a shout, a cry of anguish, 
Leaped into its yawning cavern, 
At one end went in an old man. 
Wasted, wrinkled, old, and ugly ; 
From the other came a young man, 
Tall and straight and strong and 
handsome. 

" Thus Osseo was transfigured. 
Thus restored to youth and beauty ; 
But, alas for good Osseo, 
And for Oweenee, the faithful ! 
Strangely, too, was she transfigured. 
Changed into a weak old woman, 
With a staff she tottered onward. 
Wasted, wrinkled, old, and ugly ! 
And the sisters and their husbands 
Laughed until the echoing forest 
Rang with their unseemly laughter. 

" But Osseo turned not from her, 



Walked with slower step beside her, 
Took her hand, as brown and with- 
ered 
As an oak-leaf is in Winter, 
Called her sweetheart, Nenemoosha, 
Soothed her with soft words of kind- 
ness. 
Till they reached the lodge of feast- 
ing, 
Till they sat down in the wigwam, 
Sacred to the Star of Evening, 
To the tender Star of Woman. 

" Wrapt in visions, lost in dream- 
ing, 
At the banquet sat Osseo; 
All were merry, all were happy. 
All were joyous but Osseo. 
Neither food nor drink he tasted, 
Neither did he speak nor listen. 
But as one bewildered sat he, 
Looking dreamily and sadly. 
First at Oweenee, then upward 
At the gleaming sky above them. 
" Then a voice was heard, a whis- 
per. 
Coming from the starry distance. 
Coming from the empty vastness, 
Low, and musical, and tender; 
And the voice said : ' O Osseo ! 
O my son, my best beloved ! 
Broken are the spells that bound you, 
All the charms of the magicians, 
All the magic powers of evil ; 
Come to me ; ascend, Osseo ! 

" ' Taste the food that stands before 
you : 
It is blessed and enchanted, 
It has magic virtues in it. 
It will change you to a spirit. 
All your bowls and all your kettles 
Shall be wood and clay no longer; 
But the bowls be changed to wam- 
pum, 
And the kettles shall be silver ; 
They shall shine like shells of scarlet, 
Like the fire shall gleam and glimmer. 
"'And the women shall no longer 
Bear the dreary doom of labor. 
But be changed to birds, and glisten 
With the beauty of the starlight, 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



299 



Painted with the dusky splendors 
Of the skies and clouds of evening ! ' 

'' What Osseo heard as whispers, 
What as words- he comprehended, 
Was but music to the others, 
Music as of birds afar off, 
Of the whippoorwill afar off, 
Of the lonely Wawonaissa 
Singing in the darksome forest. 

''Then the lodge began to tremble, 
Straight began to shake and tremble, 
And they felt it rising, rising, 
Slowly through the air ascending, 
From the darkness of the tree-tops 
Forth into the dewy starlight. 
Till it passed the topmost branches ; 
And behold ! the wooden dishes 
All were changed to shells of scarlet ! 
And behold ! the earthen kettles 
All were changed to bowls of silver ! 
And the roof-poles of the wigwam 
Were as glittering rods of silver. 
And the roof of bark upon them 
As the shining shards of beetles. 

" Then Osseo gazed around him, 
And he saw the nine fair sisters. 
All the sisters and their husbands. 
Changed to birds of various plumage. 
Some were jays and some were mag- 
pies, 
Others thrushes, others blackbirds ; 
And they hopped, and sang, and twit- 
tered. 
Perked and fluttered all their feathers, 
Strutted in their shining plumage, 
And their tails like fans unfolded. 

" Only Oweenee, the youngest. 
Was not changed, but sat in silence, 
Wasted, wrinkled, old, and ugly, 
Looking sadly at the others ; 
Till Osseo, gazing upward, 
Gave another cry of anguish, 
Such a cry as he had uttered 
By the oak-tree in the forest. 

''Then returned her youth and 
beauty. 
And her soiled and tattered garments 
Were transformed to robes of ermine. 
And her staff became a feather, 
Yes, a shining silver feather ! 



'• And again the wigwam trembled, 
Swayed and rushed through airy cur- 
rents. 
Through transparent cloud and vapor, 
And amid celestial splendors 
On the Evening Star alighted. 
As a snow-flake falls on snow-flake. 
As a leaf drops on a river. 
As the thistle-down on water. 

•' Forth with cheerful words of wel- 
come 
Came the father of Osseo, 
He with radiant locks of silver. 
He with eyes serene and tender. 
And he said : ' My son, Osseo, 
Hang the cage of birds you bring 

there, 
Hang the cage with rods of silver. 
And the birds with glistening feathers, 
At the doorway of my wigwam.' 
"At the door he hung the bird- 
cage. 
And they entered in and gladly 
Listened to Osseo's father, 
Ruler of the Star of Evening, 
As he said : ' O my Osseo ! 
I have had compassion on you. 
Given you back your youth and 

beauty, 
Into birds of various plumage 
Changed your sisters and their hus- 
bands ; 
Changed them thus because they 

mocked you 
In the figure of the old man. 
In that aspect sad and wrinkled, 
Could not see your heart of passion, 
Could not see your youth immortal ; 
Only Oweenee, the faithful. 
Saw your naked heart and loved you. 
" ' In the lodge that glimmers yon- 
der 
In the little star that twinkles 
Through the vapors, on the left hand, 
Lives the envious Evil Spirit, 
The Wabeno, the magician, 
Who transformed you to an old man. 
Take heed lest his beams fall on 

you, 
For the rays he darts around him 



300 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



Are the power of his enchantment, 
Are the arrows that he uses.' 

" Many years, in peace and quiet, 
On the peaceful Star of Evening 
Dw^elt Osseo with his father ; 
Many years, in song and flutter, 
At the doorway of the wigwam, 
Hung the cage with rods of silver. 
And fair Oweenee, the faithful. 
Bore a son unto Osseo, 
With the beauty of his mother. 
With the courage of his father. 

" And the boy grew up and pros- 
pered. 
And Osseo, to delight him. 
Made him Httle bows and arrows. 
Opened the great cage of silver, 
And let loose his aunts and uncles, 
All those birds with glossy feathers. 
For his little son to shoot at. 

" Round and round they wheeled 
and darted. 
Filled the Evening Star with music. 
With their songs of joy and freedom ; 
Filled the Evening Star with splen- 
dor. 
With the fluttering of their plumage ; 
Till the boy, the little hunter, 
Bent his bow and shot an arrow. 
Shot a swift and fatal arrow. 
And a bird, with shining feathers. 
At his feet fell wounded sorely. 

" But, O wondrous transformation ! 
'T was no bird he saw before him, 
'T was a beautiful young woman, 
With the arrow in her bosom ! 

" When her blood fell on the planet. 
On the sacred Star of Evening, 
Broken was the spell of magic, 
Powerless was the strange enchant- 
ment, 
And the youth, the fearless bowman. 
Suddenly felt himself descending. 
Held by unseen hands, but sinking 
Downward through the empty spaces, 
Downward through the clouds and 

vapors, 
Till he rested on an island. 
On an island green and grassy, 
Yonder in the Big-Sea-Water. 



"After him he saw descending 
All the birds with shining feathers, 
Fluttering, falling, wafted downward, 
Like the painted leaves of Autumn; 
And the lodge with poles of silver, 
With its roof like wings of beetles, 
Like the shining shards of beetles. 
By the winds of heaven uplifted. 
Slowly sank upon the island, 
Bringing back the good Osseo, 
Bringing Oweenee, the faithful. 

" Then the birds, again transfigured, 
Reassumed the shape of mortals. 
Took their shape, but not their stat- 
ure; 
They remained as Little People, 
Like the pygmies, the Puk-Wudjies, 
And on pleasant nights of Summer, 
When the Evening Star was shining, 
Hand in hand they danced together 
On the island's craggy headlands. 
On the sand-beach low and level. 
" Still their glittering lodge is seen 
there. 
On the tranquil Summer evenings, 
And upon the shore the fisher 
Sometimes hears their happy voices. 
Sees them dancing in the star- 
light!" 
When the story was completed, 
When the wondrous tale was ended, 
Looking round upon his listeners, 
Solemnly lagoo added : 
" There are great men, I have known 

such, 
Whom their people understand not, 
Whom they even make a jest of. 
Scoff and jeer at in derision. 
From the story of Osseo 
Let us learn the fate of jesters ! " 

All the wedding guests delighted 
Listened to the marvellous story. 
Listened laughing and applauding. 
And they whispered to each other, 
"Does he mean himself, I wonder ? 
And are we the aunts and uncles ? " 

Then again sang Chibiabos, 
Sang a song of love and longing, 
In those accents sweet and tender. 
In those tones of pensive sadness, 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



301 



Sang a maiden^s lamentation 
For her lover, her Algonquin. 

"When I think of my beloved, 
Ah me ! think of my beloved, 
When my heart is thinking of him, 
O my sweetheart, my Algonquin ! 

" Ah me ! when I parted from him, 
Round my neck he hung the wam- 
pum. 
As a pledge, the snow-white wam- 
pum, 
O my sweetheart, my Algonquin ! 

" I will go with you, he whispered, 
Ah me ! to your native country ; 
Let me go with you, he whispered, 
O my sweetheart, my Algonquin ! 

" Far away, away, I answered. 
Very far away, I answered, 
Ah me ! is my native country, 
O my sweetheart, my Algonquin ! 

"When I looked back to behold 
him, 
Where we parted, to behold him, 
AfttT me he still was gazing, 
O my sweetheart, my Algonquin ! 

" By the tree he still was standing. 
By the fallen tree was standing. 
That had dropped into the water, 
O my sweetheart, my Algonquin ! 

" When I think of my beloved, 
Ah me ! think of my beloved, 
When my heart is thinking of him, 
O my sweetheart, my Algonquin ! " 

Such w^as Hiawatha's Wedding, 
Such the dance of Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Such the story of lagoo, 
Such the songs of Chibiabos ; 
Thus the wedding banquet ended. 
And the wedding guests departed, 
Leaving Hiawatha happy 
With the night and Minnehaha. 

XHL 

BLESSING THE CORN-FIELDS. 

Sing, O Song of Hiawatha, 

Of the happy days that followed, 

In the land of the Ojibways, 

In the pleasant land and peaceful ! 



Sing the mysteries of Mondamin, 
Sing the Blessing of the Corn-fields ! 

Buried was the bloody hatchet. 
Buried was the dreadful war-club. 
Buried were all warlike weapons, 
And the war-cry was forgotten. 
There was peace among the nations ; 
Unmolested roved the hunters. 
Built the birch-canoe for sailing. 
Caught the fish in lake and river. 
Shot the deer and trapped the beaver ; 
Unmolested worked the women. 
Made their sugar from the maple. 
Gathered wild rice in the meadows. 
Dressed the skins of deer and beaver. 

All around the happy village 
Stood the maize-fields, green and 

shining, 
Waved the green plumes of Mon- 
damin, 
Waved his soft and sunny tresses, 
Filling all the land with plenty. 
'T was the women who in Spring- 
time 
Planted the broad fields and fruitful, 
Buried in the earth Mondamin ; 
'T was the women who in Autumn 
Stripped the yellow husks of harvest. 
Stripped the garments from Mon- 
damin, 
Even as Hiawatha taught them. 
Once, when all the maize was 
planted, 
Hiawatha, wise and thoughtful, 
Spake and said to Minneliaha, 
To his wife, the Laughing Water : 
" You shall bless to-night the corn- 
fields. 
Draw a magic circle round them. 
To protect them from destruction, 
Blast of mildew, blight of insect, 
Wagemin, the thief of corn-fields, 
Paimosaid, who steals the maize-ear ! 

" In the night, when all is silence. 
In the night, when all is darkness, 
When the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin, 
Shuts the doors of all the wigwams. 
So that not an ear can hear you. 
So that not an eye can see you. 
Rise up from your bed in silence, 



302 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



Lay aside your garments wholly, 
Walk around the fields you planted, 
Round the borders of the corn-fields, 
Covered by your tresses only. 
Robed with darkness as a garment. 
"Thus the fields shall be more 
fruitful, 
And the passing of your footsteps 
Draw a magic circle round them. 
So that neither blight nor mildew. 
Neither burrowing worm nor insect, 
Shall pass o'er the magic circle ; 
Not the dragon-fly, Kwo-ne-she, 
Nor the spider, Subbekashe, 
Nor the grasshopper, Pah-puk-keena, 
Nor the mighty caterpillar, 
Way-muk-kwana, with the bear-skin. 
King of all the caterpillars ! " 

On the tree-tops near the corn- 
fields 
Sat the hungry crows and ravens, 
Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens, 
With his band of black marauders. 
And they laughed at Hiawatha, 
Till the tree-tops shook with laughter, 
With their melancholy laughter 
At the words of Hiawatha. 
" Hear him ! " said they ; " hear the 

Wise Man ! 
Hear the plots of Hiawatha ! " 

When the noiseless night descended 
Broad and dark o'er field and forest. 
When the mournful Wawonaissa, 
Sorrowing sang among the hemlocks, 
And the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin, 
Shut the doors of all the wigwams. 
From her bed rose Laughing Water, 
Laid aside her garments wholly. 
And with darkness clothed and 

guarded. 
Unashamed and unafFrighted, 
Walked securely round the corn-fields, 
Drew the sacred, magic circle 
Of her footprints round the corn-fields. 

No one but the Midnight only 
Saw her beauty in the darkness. 
No one but the Wawonaissa 
Heard the panting of her bosom ; 
Guskewau, the darkness, wrapped her 
Closely in his sacred mantle, 



So that none might see her beauty, 
So that none might boast, " I saw 
her ! " 
On the morrow, as the day dawned, 
Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens, 
Gathered all his black marauders. 
Crows and blackbirds, jays and ravens, 
Clamorous on the dusky tree-tops. 
And descended, fast and fearless, 
On the fields of Hiawatha, 
On the grave of the Mondamin. 
" We will drag Mondamin," said 
they, 
" From the grave where he is buried, 
Spite of all the magic circles 
Laughing Water draws around it. 
Spite of all the sacred footprints 
Minnehaha stamps upon it ! " 

But the wary Hiawatha, 
Ever thoughtful, careful, watchful, 
Had overheard the scornful laughter 
When they mocked him from the tree- 
tops. 
" Kaw ! " he said, " my friends the 

ravens ! 
Kahgahgee, my King of Ravens ! 
I will teach you all a lesson 
That shall not be soon forgotten ! " 

He had risen before the daybreak, 
He had spread o'er all the corn-fields 
Snares to catch the black marauders, 
And was lying now in ambush 
In the neighboring grove of pine-trees, 
Waiting for the crows and blackbirds, 
Waiting for the jays and ravens. 
Soon they came with caw and 
clamor. 
Rush of wings and cry of voices. 
To their work of devastation, 
Settling down upon the corn-fields, 
Delving deep with beak and talon. 
For the body of Mondamin. 
And with all their craft and running, 
All their skill in wiles of warfare. 
They perceived no danger near them, 
Till their claws became entangled, 
Till they found themselves imprisoned 
In the snares of Hiawatha. 

From his place of ambush came he. 
Striding terrible among them. 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



303 



And so awful was his aspect 
That the bravest quailed with terror. 
Without mercy he destroyed them 
Right and left, by tens and twenties, 
And their wretched, lifeless bodies 
Hung aloft on poles for scarecrows 
Round the consecrated corn-fields, 
As a signal of his vengeance. 
As a warning to marauders. 

Only Kahgahgee, the leader, 
Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens, 
He alone was spared among them 
As a hostage for his people. 
With his prisoner-string he bound 

him. 
Led him captive to his wigwam. 
Tied him fast with cords of elm-bark 
To the ridge-pole of his wigwam. 

" Kahgahgee, my raven ! '' said he, 
" You the leader of the robbers, 
You the plotter of this mischief, 
The contriver of this outrage, 
I will keep you, I will hold you. 
As a hostage for your people. 
As a pledge of good behavior ! " 

And he left him, grim and sulky, 
Sitting in the morning sunshine 
On the summit of the wigwam. 
Croaking fiercely his displeasure. 
Flapping his great sable pinions. 
Vainly struggling for his freedom. 
Vainly calling on his people ! 

Summer passed, and Shawondasee 
Breathed his sighs o'er all the land- 
scape. 
From the South-land sent his ardors, 
Wafted kisses wariii and tender ; 
And the maize-field grew and ripened. 
Till it stood in all the splendor 
Of its garments green and yellow. 
Of its tassels and its plumage. 
And the maize-ears full and shining 
Gleamed from bursting sheaths of 
verdure. 

Then Nokomis, the old woman. 
Spake, and said to Minnehaha: 
'''T is the Moon when leaves are fall- 
ing ; 
All the wild-rice has been gathered, 
And the maize is ripe and ready ; 



Let us gather in the harvest, 
Let us wrestle with Mondamin, 
Strip him of his plumes and tassels, 
Of his garments green and yellow ! " 

And the merry Laughing Water 
Went rejoicing from the wigwam. 
With Nokomis, old and wrinkled, 
And they called the women round 

them. 
Called the young men and the maid- 
ens. 
To the harvest of the corn-fields. 
To the husking of the maize-ear. 

On the border of the forest, 
Underneath the fragrant pine-trees, 
Sat the old men and the warriors 
Smoking in the pleasant shadow. 
In uninterrupted silence 
Looked they at the gamesome labor 
Of the young men and the women ; 
Listened to their noisy talking, 
To their laughter and their singing. 
Heard them chattering like the mag- 
pies. 
Heard them laughing like the blue- 
jays. 
Heard them singing like the robins. 
And whene'er some lucky maiden 
Found a red ear in the husking. 
Found a maize-ear red as blood is, 
" Nushka ! " cried they all together, 
" Nushka ! you shall have a sweet- 
heart. 
You shall have a handsome hus- 
band ! " 
" Ugh ! " the old men all responded 
From their seats beneath the pine- 
trees. 
And whene'er a youth or maiden 
Found a crooked ear in husking, 
Found a maize-ear in the husking. 
Blighted, mildewed, or misshapen. 
Then they laughed and sang together. 
Crept and limped about the corn-fields. 
Mimicked in their gait and gestures 
Some old man, bent almost double, 
Singing singly or together: 
" Wagemin, the thief of corn-fields ! 
Paimosaid, who steals the maize- 
ear ! " 



304 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



Till the corn-fields rang with laugh- 
ter, 
Till from Hiawatha's wigwam 
Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens, 
Screamed and quivered in his anger. 
And from all the neighboring tree- 
tops 
Cawed and croaked the black maraud- 
ers. 
" Ugh ! " the old men all responded, 
From their seats beneath the pine- 
trees ! 

XIV. 

PICTURE-WRITING. 

In those days said Hiawatha, 

" Lo ! how all things fade and perish! 

From the memory of the old men 

Pass away the great traditions, 

The achievements of the warriors, 

The adventures of the hunters, 

All the wisdom of the Medas, 

All the craft of the Wabenos, 

All the marvellous dreams and visions 

Of the Jossakeeds, the Prophets ! 

" Great men die and are forgotten, 
Wise men speak ; their words of 

wisdom 
Perish in the ears that hear them, 
Do not reach the generations 
That, as yet unborn, are waiting 
In the great, mysterious darkness 
Of the speechless days that shall be ! 

" On the grave-posts of our fathers 
Are no signs, no figures painted ; 
Who are in those graves we know 

not. 
Only know they are our fathers. 
Of what kith they are and kindred, 
From what old, ancestral Totem, 
Be it Eagle, Bear, or Beaver, 
They descended, this we know not, 
Only know they are our fathers. 

" Face to face we speak together. 
But we cannot speak when absent, 
Cannot send our voices from us 
To the friends that dwell afar off; 
Cannot send a secret message, 



But the bearer learns our secret, 
May pervert it, may betray it. 
May reveal it unto others." 

Thus said Hiawatha, walking 
In the soUtary forest. 
Pondering, musing in the forest, 
On the welfare of his people. 

From his pouch he took his colors, 
Took his paints of different colors. 
On the smooth bark of a birch-tree 
Painted many shapes and figures. 
Wonderful and mystic figures, 
And each figure had a meaning. 
Each some word or thought sug- 
gested. 
Gitche Manito the Mighty, 
He, the Master of Life, was painted 
As an egg, with points projecting 
To the four winds of the heavens. 
Everywhere is the Great Spirit, 
Was the meaning of this symbol. 

Mitche Manito the Mighty, 
He the dreadful Spirit of Evil, 
As a serpent was depicted. 
As Kenabeek, the great serpent. 
Very crafty, very cunning. 
Is the creeping Spirit of Evil, 
Was the meaning of this symbol. 

Life and Death he drew as circles, 
Life was white, but Death was dark- 
ened ; 
Sun and moon and stars he painted, 
Man and beast, and fish and reptile. 
Forests, mountains, lakes, and rivers. 
For the earth he drew a straight 
line. 
For the sky a bow above it ; 
White the space between for day- 
time. 
Filled with little stars for night-time ; 
On the left a point for sunrise. 
On the right a point for sunset, 
On the top a point for noon-tide. 
And for rain and cloudy weather 
Waving lines descending from it. 
Footprints pointing towards a wig- 
wam 
Were a sign of invitation. 
Were a sign of guests assembling ; 
Bloody hands with palms uplifted 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



305 



Were a symbol of destruction, 
Were a hostile sign and symbol. 

All these things did Hiawatha 
Show unto his wondering people, 
And interpreted their meaning, 
And he said: "Behold, your grave- 
posts 
Have no mark, no sign, nor symbol. 
Go and paint them all with figures ; 
Each one with its household symbol. 
With its own ancestral Totem ; 
So that those who follow after 
May distinguish them and know 
them." 

And they painted on the grave- 
posts 
Of the graves yet unforgotten, 
Each his own ancestral Totem, 
Each the symbol of his household ; 
Figures of the Bear and Reindeer, 
Of the Turtle, Crane, and Beaver, 
Each inverted as a token 
That the owner was departed. 
That the chief who bore the symbol 
Lay beneath in dust and ashes. 

And the Jossakeeds, the Prophets, 
The Wabenos, the Magicians, 
And the Medicine-men, the Medas, 
Painted upon bark and deer-skin 
Figures for the songs they chanted, 
For each song a separate symbol, 
Figures mystical and awful. 
Figures strange and brightly colored ; 
And each figure had its meaning, 
Each some magic song suggested. 

The Great Spirit, the Creator, 
Flashing light through all the heaven ; 
The Great Serpent, the Kenabeek, 
With a bloody crest erected. 
Creeping, looking into heaven ; 
In the sky the sun, that listens. 
And the moon eclipsed and dying; 
Owl and eagle, crane and hen-hawk. 
And the cormorant, bird of magic ; 
Headless men, that walk the heavens. 
Bodies lying pierced with arrows. 
Bloody hands of death uplifted. 
Flags on graves, and great war-cap- 
tains 
Grasping both the earth and heaven ! 



Such as these the shapes they 
painted 
On the birch-bark and the deer-skin ; 
Songs of war and songs of hunting, 
Songs of medicine and of magic. 
All were written in these figures, 
For each figure had its meaning, 
Each its separate song recorded. 

Nor forgotten was the Love-Song, 
The most subtle of all medicines, 
The most potent spell of magic. 
Dangerous more than war or hunting. 
Thus the Love-Song was recorded, 
Symbol and interpretation. 

First a human figure standing, 
Painted in the brightest scarlet ; 
'T is the lover, the musician, 
And the meaning is, " My painting 
Makes me powerful over others." 

Then the figure seated, singing. 
Playing on a drum of magic. 
And the interpretation. " Listen ! 
'T is my voice you hear, my singing.'" 

Then the same red figure seated 
In the shelter of a wigwam, 
And the meaning of the symbol, 
" I will come and sit beside you 
In the mystery of my passion ! " 

Then two figures, man and woman, 
Standing hand in hand together. 
With their hands so clasped together 
That they seem in one united. 
And the words thus represented 
Are, " I see your heart within you, 
And your cheeks are red with 
blushes ! " 

Next the maiden on an island. 
In the centre of an island ; 
And the song this shape suggested 
Was, "Though you were at a dis- 
tance. 
Were upon some far-off island. 
Such the spell I cast upon you. 
Such the magic power of passion, 
I could straightway draw you to me ! " 

Then the figure of the maiden 
Sleeping, and the lover near her. 
Whispering to her in her slumbers, 
Saying, " Though you were far from 
me 



3o6 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



In the land of Sleep and Silence, 
Still the voice of love would reach 
you!" 

And the last of all the figures 
Was a heart within a circle, 
Drawn within a magic circle ; 
And the image had this meaning : 
" Naked lies your heart before me, 
To your naked heart I whisper ! " 

Thus it was that Hiawatha, 
In his wisdom, taught the people 
All the mysteries of painting, 
All the art of Picture-Writing, 
On the smooth bark of the birch-tree, 
On the white skin of the reindeer, 
On the grave-posts of the village. 

XV. 

HIAWATHA'S LAMENTATION. 

In those days the Evil Spirits, 
All the ManitDS of mischief. 
Fearing Hiawatha's wisdom, 
And his love for Chibiabos, 
Jealous of their faithful friendship. 
And their noble words and actions. 
Made at length a league against them, 
To molest them and destroy them. 

Hiawatha, wise and wary, 
Often said to Chibiabos, 
" O my brother ! do not leave me, 
Lest the Evil Spirits harm you ! " 
Chibiabos, young and heedless. 
Laughing shook his coal-black tresses. 
Answered ever sweet and childlike, 
" Do not fear for me, O brother ! 
Harm and evil come not near me !" 

Once when Peboan, the Winter, 
Roofed with ice the Big-Sea-Water, 
When the snow-flakes, whirling down- 
ward, 
Hissed among the withered oak- 
leaves, 
Changed the pine-trees into wig- 
wams, 
Covered all the earth with silence, — 
Armed with arrows, shod with snow- 
shoes. 
Heeding not his brother's warning. 



Fearing not the Evil Spirits, 
Forth to hunt the deer with antlers 
All alone went Chibiabos. 

Right across the Big-Sea-Water 
Sprang with speed the deer before 

him. 
With the wind and snow he followed, 
O'er the treacherous ice he followed. 
Wild with all the fierce commotion 
And the rapture of the hunting. 

But beneath, the Evil Spirits 
Lay in ambush, waiting for him. 
Broke the treacherous ice beneath 

him. 
Dragged him downward to the bot- 
tom. 
Buried in the sand his body. 
Unktahee, the god of water. 
He the god of the Dacotahs, 
Drowned him in the deep abysses 
Of the lake of Gitche Gumee. 

From the headlands Hiawatha 
Sent forth such a wail of anguish, 
Such a fearful lamentation, 
That the bison paused to listen. 
And the wolves howled from the 

prairies. 
And the thunder in the distance 
Starting answered '* Baim-wawa!" 

Then his face with black he painted, 
With his robe his head he covered. 
In his wigwam sat lamenting. 
Seven long weeks he sat lamenting. 
Uttering still this moan of sorrow : — 

" He is dead, the sweet musician ! 
He the sweetest of all singers ! 
He has gone from us forever. 
He has moved a little nearer 
To the Master of all music. 
To the Master of all singing ! 
O my brother, Chibiabos ! " 

And the melancholy fir-trees 
Waved their dark green fans above 

him. 
Waved their purple cones above him, 
Sighing with him to console him. 
Mingling with his lamentation 
Their complaining, their lamenting. 

Came the Spring, and all the forest 
Looked in vain for Chibiabos ; 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



307 



Sighed the rivulet, Sebowisha, 
Sighed the rushes in the meadow. 

From the tree-tops sang the blue- 
bird, 
Sang the blue-bird, the Owaissa, 
" Chibiabos ! Chibiabos ! 
He is dead, the sweet musician ! " 

From the wigwam sang the robin, 
Sang the robin, the Opechee, 
"Chibiabos ! Chibiabos ! 
He is dead, the sweetest singer ! " 

And at night through all the forest 
Went the whippoorwill complaining, 
Wailing went the Wawonaissa, 
" Chibiabos ! Chibiabos ! 
He is dead, the sweet musician ! 
He the sweetest of all singers! " 

Then the Medicine-men, the Medas, 
The Magicians, the Wabenos, 
And the Jossakeeds, the Prophets, 
Came to visit Hiawatha ; 
Built a Sacred Lodge beside him, 
To appease him, to console him. 
Walked in silent, grave procession, 
Bearing each a pouch of healing, 
Skin of beaver, lynx, or otter, 
Filled with magic roots and simples. 
Filled with very potent medicines. 

When he heard their steps ap- 
proaching 
Hiawatha ceased lamenting, 
Called no more on Chibiabos ; 
Naught he questioned, naught he 

answered. 
But his mournful head uncovered, 
From his face the mourning colors 
Washed he slowly and in silence, 
Slowly and in silence followed 
Onward to the Sacred Wigwam. 

There a magic drink they gave 
him, 
Made of Nahma-wusk, the spearmint. 
And Wabeno-wusk, the yarrow. 
Roots of power, and herbs of healing ; 
Beat their drums, and shook their 

rattles : 
Chanted singly and in chorus, 
Mystic songs like these, they chanted. 

"I myself, myself! behold me ! 
'T is the great Gray Eagle talking ; 



Come, ye white crows, come and hear 

him ! 
The loud-speaking thunder helps me ; 
All the unseen spirits help me ; 
I can hear their voices calling. 
All around the sky I hear them I 
I can blow you strong, my brother, 
I can heal you, Hiawatha ! " 

" Hi-au-ha ! '' replied the chorus, 
" Way-ha-way ! " the mystic chorus. 

"Friends of mine are all the ser- 
pents ! 
Hear me shake my skin of hen-hawk ! 
Mahng, the white loon, 1 can'kill him ; 
I can shoot your heart and kill it ! 
I can blow you strong, my brother, 
I can heal you, Hiawatha ! " 

" Hi-au-ha ! " replied the chorus, 
"Way-ha-way !" the mystic chorus. 

" 1 myself, myself ! the prophet ! 
When I speak the wigwam trembles. 
Shakes the Sacred Lodge with terror, 
Hands unseen begin to shake it ! 
When I walk, the sky I tread on 
Bends and makes a noise beneath me. 
I can blow you strong, my brother ! 
Rise and speak, O Hiawatha ! " 

" Hi-au-ha ! " replied the chorus, 
" Way-ha-way ! " the mystic chorus. 

Then they shook their medicine- 
pouches 
O'er the head of Hiawatha, 
Danced their medicine-dance around 

him. 
And upstarting wild and haggard. 
Like a man from dreams awakened. 
He was healed of all his madness. 
As the clouds are swept from heaven. 
Straightway from his brain departed 
All his moody melancholy ; 
As the ice is swept from rivers. 
Straightway from his heart departed 
All his sorrow and affliction. 

Then they summoned Chibiabos 
From his grave beneath the waters, 
From the sands of Gitche Gumee 
Summoned Hiawatha's brother. 
And so mighty was the magic 
Of that cry and invocation, 
That he heard it as he lay there 



3o8 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



Underneath the Big-Sea-Water ; 
From the sand he rose and listened, 
Heard the music and the singing, 
Came, obedient to the summons, 
To the doorway of the wigwam, 
But to enter they forbade him. 

Through a chink a coal they gave 
him. 
Through the door a burning fire- 
brand ; 
Ruler in the Land of Spirits, 
Ruler o'er the dead, they made him, 
Telling him a fire to kindle 
For all those that died thereafter. 
Camp-fires for their night encamp- 
ments 
On their solitary journey 
To the kingdom of Ponemah, 
To the land of the Hereafter. 

From the village of his childhood. 
From the homes of those who knew 

him. 
Passing silent through the forest, 
Like a smoke-wreath wafted sideways, 
Slov/ly vanished Chibiabos ! 
Where he passed, the branches moved 

not. 
Where he trod, the grasses bent not. 
And the fallen leaves of last year 
Made no sound beneath his footsteps. 
Four whole days he journeyed on- 
ward 
Down the pathway of the dead men ; 
On the dead man's strawberry feasted, 
Crossed the melancholy river. 
On the swinging log he crossed it, 
Came unto the Lake of Silver, 
In the Stone Canoe was carried 
To the Islands of the Blessed, 
To the land of ghosts and shadows. 

On that journey, moving slowly, 
Many weary spirits saw he, 
Panting under heavy burdens. 
Laden with war-clubs, bows and ar- 
rows, 
Robes of fur, and pots and kettles. 
And with food that friends had given 
For that solitary journey. 

" Ah ! why do the living," said they, 
" Lay such heavy burdens on us ! 



Better were it to go naked, 
Better were it to go fasting, 
Than to bear such heavy burdens 
On our long and weary journey ! " 

Forth then issued Hiawatha, 
Wandered eastward, wandered west- 
ward. 
Teaching men the use of simples 
And the antidotes for poisons, 
And the cure of all diseases. 
Thus was first made known to mor- 
tals a 
All the mystery of Medamin, f 
All the sacred art of healing. ' 

XVI. 

PAU-PUK-KEEWIS. 

You shall hear how Pau-Puk-Keewis 
He, the handsome Yenadizze, 
Whom the people called the Storm 

Fool, 
Vexed the village with disturbance ; 
You shall hear of all his mischief, 
And his flight from Hiawatha, 
And his wondrous transmigrations^ 
And the end of his adventures. 

On the shores of Gitche Gumee, 
On the dunes of Nagow Wudjoo, 
By the shining Big-Sea-Water 
Stood the lodge of Pau-Puk-Keewis. 
It was he who in his frenzy 
Whirled these drifting sands together, 
On the dunes of Nagow Wudjoo, 
When, among the guests assembled, 
He so merrily and madly 
Danced at Hiawatha's wedding, 
Danced the Beggar's Dance to please 
them. 

Now, in search of new adventures. 
From his lodge went Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Came with speed into the village, 
Found the young men all assembled 
In the lodge of old lagoo, 
Listening to his monstrous stories, 
To his wonderful adventures. 

He was telling them the story 
Of Ojeeg, the Summer-Maker, 
How he made a hole in heaven, 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



309 



How he climbed up into heaven, 
And let out the Summer-weather, 
The perpetual, pleasant Summer ; 
How the Otter first essayed it ; 
How the Beaver, Lynx, and Badger 
Tried in turn the great achievement, 
From the summit of the mountain 
Smote their fists against the heavens. 
Smote against the sky their foreheads. 
Cracked the sky, but could not break 

it; 
How the Wolverine, uprising. 
Made him ready for the encounter. 
Bent his knees down, hke a squirrel, 
Drew his arms back, like a cricket. 

" Once he leaped,'' said old lagoo, 
"Once he leaped, and lo ! above him 
Bent the sky, as ice in rivers 
When the waters rise beneath it ; 
Twice he leaped, and lo ! above him 
Cracked the sky, as ice in rivers 
When the freshet is at highest ! 
Thrice he leaped, and lo ! above him 
Broke the shattered sky asunder, 
And he disappeared within it. 
And Ojeeg, the Fisher Weasel, 
With a bound went in behind him ! " 
" Hark you ! " shouted Pau-Puk- 
Keewis, 
As he entered at the doorway ; 
" I am tired of all this talking, 
Tired of old lagoo's stories^, 
Tired of Hiawatha's wisdom. 
Here is something to amuse you. 
Better than this endless talking." 
Then from out his pouch of wolf- 
skin 
Forth he drew, with solemn manner. 
All the game of Bowl and Counters, 
Pugasaing, with thirteen pieces. 
White on one side were they painted, 
And vermilion on the other; 
Two Kenabeeks or great serpents, 
Two Ininewug or wedge-men. 
One great war-club, Pugamaugun, 
And one slender fish, the Keego, 
Four round pieces, Ozawabeeks, 
And three Sheshebwug or ducklings. 
All were made of bone and painted, 
All except the Ozawabeeks ; 



These were brass, on one side bur- 
nished, 
And were black upon the other. 

In a wooden bowl he placed them. 
Shook and jostled them together, 
Threw them on the ground before 

him, 
Thus exclaiming and explaining : 
" Red side up are all the pieces, 
And one great Kenabeek standing 
On the bright side of a brass piece. 
On a burnished Ozawabeek ; 
Thirteen tens and eight are counted." 

Then again he shook the pieces. 
Shook and jostled them together, 
Threw them on the ground before 

him, 
Still exclaiming and explaining : 
" White are both the great Kena- 
beeks, 
White the Ininewug, the wedge-men, 
Red are all the other pieces ; 
Five tens and an eight are counted." 
Thus he taught the game of hazard, 
Thus displayed it and explained it, 
Running through its various chances, 
Various changes, various meanings. 
Twenty curious eyes stared at him, 
Full of eagerness stared at him. 

" Many games," said old lagoo, 
" Many games of skill and hazard 
Have I seen in different nations. 
Have I played in different countries. 
He who plays with old lagoo 
Must have very nimble fingers ; 
Though you think yourself so skilful, 
I can beat you, Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
I can even give you lessons 
In your game of Bowl and Count- 
ers ! " 
So they sat and played together, 
All the old men and the young men, 
Played for dresses, v/eapons, wampum, 
Played till midnight, played till morn- 
ing, 
Played until the Yenadizze, 
Till the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Of their treasures had despoiled them. 
Of the best of all their dresses, 
Shirts of deer-skin, robes of ermine, 



3IO 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



Belts of wampum, crests of feathers, 
Warlike weapons, pipes and poaches. 
Twenty eyes glared wildly at him, 
Like the eyes of wolves glared at him. 

Said the lucky Pau-Puk-Keewis : 
*' In my wigwam I am lonely. 
In my wanderings and adventures 
I have need of a companion. 
Fain would have a Meshinauwa, 
An attendant and pipe-bearer. 
I will venture all these winnings. 
All these garments heaped about me, 
All this wampum, all these feathers. 
On a single throw will venture 
All against the young man yonder ! " 
'T was a youth of sixteen summers, 
'T was a nephew of lagoo ; 
Face-in-a-Mist, the people called him. 

As the fire burns in a pipe-head 
Dusky red beneath the ashes. 
So beneath his shaggy eyebrows 
Glowed the eyes of old lagoo. 
" Ugh ! " he answered very fiercely ; 
" Ugh ! " they answered all and each 
one. 

Seized the wooden bowl the old 
man, 
Closely in his bony fingers 
Clutched the fatal bowl, Onagon, 
Shook it fiercely and with fury, 
Made the pieces ring together 
As he threw them down before him. 

Red were both the great Kenabeeks, 
Red the Ininewug, the wedge-men, 
Red the Sheshebwug, the ducklings, 
Black the four brass Ozawabeeks, 
White alone the fish, the Keego ; 
Only five the pieces counted ! 

Then the smiling Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Shook the bowl and threw the pieces ; 
Lightly in the air he tossed them. 
And they fell about him scattered ; 
Dark and bright the Ozawabeeks, 
Red and white the other pieces, 
And upright among the others 
One Ininewug was standing, 
Even as crafty Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Stood alone among the players, 
Saying, ^' Five tens ! mine the game 
is!" 



Twenty eyes glared at him fiercely. 
Like the eyes of wolves glared at him. 
As he turned and left the wigwam. 
Followed by his Meshinauwa, 
By the nephew of lagoo, 
By the tall and graceful stripling. 
Bearing in his arms the winnings, 
Shirts of deer-skin, robes of ermine, 
Belts of wampum, pipes and weapons. 
" Carry them," said Pau-Puk-Kee- 
wis, 
Pointing with his fan of feathers, 
" To my wigwam far to eastward. 
On the dunes of Nagow Wudjoo ! " 
Hot and red with smoke and gam- 
bling 
Were the eyes of Pau-Puk-Keewis 
As he came forth to the freshness 
Of the pleasant Summer morning. 
All the birds were singing gayly. 
All the streamlets flowing swiftly, 
And the heart of Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Sang with pleasure as the birds sing, 
Beat with triumph like the streamlets, 
As he wandered through the village, 
In the early gray of morning. 
With his fan of turkey-feathers. 
With his plumes and tufts of swan's 

down. 
Till he reached the farthest wigwam, 
Reached the lodge of Hiawatha. 

Silent was it and deserted ; 
No one met him at the doorway. 
No one came to bid him welcome ; 
But the birds were singing round it, 
In and out and round the doorway, 
Hopping, singing, fluttering, feeding, 
And aloft upon the ridge-pole 
Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens, 
Sat with fiery eyes, and, screaming. 
Flapped his wings at Pau-Puk-Kee- 
wis. 
" All are gone ! the lodge is 
empty ! " 
Thus it was spake Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
In his heart resolving mischief; 
" Gone is wary Hiawatha, 
Gone the silly Laughing Water, 
Gone Nokomis, the old woman, 
And the lodge is left unguarded ! " 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



3" 



By the neck he seized the raven, 
Whirled it round him like a rattle, 
Like a medicine-pouch he shook it, 
Strangled Kahgahgee, the raven, 
From the ridge-pole of the wigwam 
Left its lifeless body hanging. 
As an insult to its master, 
As a taunt to Hiawatha. 

With a stealthy step he entered. 
Round the lodge in wild disorder 
Threw the household things about 

him. 
Piled together in confusion 
Bowls of wood and earthen kettles, 
Robes of buffalo and beaver, 
Skins of otter, lynx, and ermine, 
As an insult to Nokomis, 
As a taunt to Minnehaha. 

Then departed Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Whistling, singing through the forest. 
Whistling gayly to the squirrels. 
Who from hollow boughs above him 
Dropped their acorn-shells upon him. 
Singing gayly to the wood-birds. 
Who from out the leafy darkness 
Answered with a song as merry. 
Then he climbed the rocky head- 
lands. 
Looking o'er the Gitche Gumee, 
Perched himself upon their summit. 
Waiting full of mirth and mischief 
The return of Hiawatha, 

Stretched upon his back he lay 
there ; 
Far below him plashed the waters, 
Plashed and washed the dreamy 

waters ; 
Far above him swam the heavens, 
Swam the dizzy, dreamy heavens ; 
Round him hovered, fluttered, rustled, 
Hiawatha's mountain chickens. 
Flock-wise swept and wheeled about 

him. 
Almost brushed him with their pin- 
ions. 
And he killed them as he lay there. 
Slaughtered them by tens and twen- 
ties, 
Threw their bodies down the head- 
land, 



Threw them on the beach below him, 
Till at length Kayoshk, the sea-gull, 
Perched upon a crag above them. 
Shouted : " It is Pau-Puk-Keewis ! 
He is slaying us by hundreds ! 
Send a message to our brother, 
Tidings send to Hiawatha ! " 



xvn. 

THE HUNTING OF PAU-PUK-KEEWIS. 

Full of wrath was Hiawatha ' 
W^hen he came into the village, 
Found the people in confusion. 
Heard of all the misdemeanors. 
All the malice and the mischief. 
Of the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis. 
Hard his breath came through his 

nostrils. 
Through his teeth he buzzed and 

muttered 
Words of anger and resentment. 
Hot and humming, like a hornet. 
" I will slay this Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Slay this mischief-maker ! " said he. 
" Not so long and wide the world is. 
Not so rude and rough the way is. 
That my wrath shall not attain him. 
That my vengeance shall not reach 

him ! " 
Then in swift pursuit departed 
Hiawatha and the hunters 
On the trail of Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Through the forest, where he passed 

it. 
To the headlands where he rested ; 
But they found not Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Only in the trampled grasses. 
In the whortleberry-bushes, 
Found the couch where he had rested. 
Found the impress of his body. 
From the lowlands far beneath 

them. 
From the Muskoday, the meadow, 
Pau-Puk-Keewis, turning backward. 
Made a gesture of defiance, 
Made a gesture of derision ; 
And aloud cried Hiawatha, 
From the summit of the mountain : 



312 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



" Not so long and wide the world is, 
Not so rude and rough the way is, 
But my wrath shall overtake you, 
And my vengeance shall attain you ! " 

Over rock and over river, 
Thorough bush, and brake, and forest. 
Ran the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis ; 
Like an antelope he bounded, 
Till he came unto a streamlet 
In the middle of the forest, 
To a streamlet still and tranquil. 
That had overflowed its margin, 
To a dam made by the beavers, 
To a pond of quiet water, 
Where knee-deep the trees were stand- 
ing, 
Where the water-lilies floated. 
Where the rushes waved and whis- 
pered. 

On the dam stood Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
On the dam of trunks and branches. 
Through whose chinks tha water 

spouted. 
O'er whose summit flowed the stream- 
let. 
From the bottom rose a beaver, 
Looked with two great eyes of won- 
der, 
Eyes that seemed to ask a question, 
At the stranger, Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

On the dam stood Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
O'er his ankles flowed the streamlet, 
Flowed the bright and silvery water, 
And he spake unto the beaver. 
With a smile he spake in this wise : 

"O my friend Ahmeek, the beaver, 
Cool and pleasant is the water ; 
Let me dive into the water. 
Let me rest there in your lodges ; 
Change me, too, into a beaver ! " 

Cautiously replied the beaver, 
With reserve he thus made answer : 
" Let me first consult the others, 
Let me ask the other beavers." 
Down he sank into the water, 
Heavily sank he, as a stone sinks, 
Down among the leaves and branches. 
Brown and matted at the bottom. 

On the dam stood Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
O'er his ankles flowed the streamlet, 



Spouted through the chinks below 

him, 
Dashed upon the stones beneath him, 
Spread serene and calm before him. 
And the sunshine and the shadows 
Fell in flecks and gleams upon him, 
Fell in little shining patches. 
Through the waving,rustlingbranches. 

From the bottom rose the beavers, 
Silently above the surface 
Rose one head and then another. 
Till the pond seemed full of beavers, 
Full of black and shining faces. 

To the beavers Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Spake entreating, said in this wise : 
" Very pleasant is your dwelling, 
O my friends ! and safe from danger ; 
Can you not with all your cunning, 
All your wisdom and contrivance. 
Change me, too, into a beaver ? " 

" Yes ! " replied Ahmeek, the beaver, 
He the King of all the beavers, 
" Let yourself slide down among us, 
Down into the tranquil water." 

Down into the pond among them 
Silently sank Pau-Puk-Keewis ; 
Black became his shirt of deer-skin, 
Black his moccasins and leggings. 
In a broad black tail behind him 
Spread his fox-tails and his fringes ; 
He was changed into a beaver. 

"Make me large," said Pau-Puk- 
Keewis, 
"Make me large and make me larger, 
Larger than the other beavers." 
" Yes," the beaver chief responded, 
" When our lodge below you enter. 
In our wigwam we will make you 
Ten times larger than the others." 

Thus into the clear, brown water 
Silently sank Pau-Puk-Keewis ; 
Found the bottom covered over 
With the trunks of trees and branches, 
Hoards of food against the winter. 
Piles and heaps against the famine. 
Found the lodge with arching door- 
way. 
Leading into spacious chambers. 

Here they made him large and 
larger, 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



3^3 



Made him largest of the beavers, 
Ten times larger than the others. 
" You shall be our ruler,'^ said they ; 
"Chief and king of all the beavers." 

But not long had Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Sat in state among the beavers, 
When there came a voice of warning 
From the watchman at his station 
In the water-flags and Hlies, 
Saying, " Here is Hiawatha ! 
Hiawatha with his hunters ! " 

Then they heard a cry above them, 
Heard a shouting and a tramping, 
Heard a crashing and a rushing. 
And the water round and o'er them 
Sank and sucked away in eddies, 
And they knew their dam was broken. 

On the lodge's roof the hunters 
Leaped, and broke it all asunder ; 
Streamed the sunshine through the 

crevice. 
Sprang the beavers through the door- 
way. 
Hid themselves in deeper water. 
In the channel of the streamlet; 
But the mighty Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Could not pass beneath the doorway ; 
He was puffed with pride and feed- 

He was swollen like a bladder. 

Through the roof looked Hiawatha, 
Cried aloud, "O Pau-Puk-Keewis ! 
Vain are all your craft and cunning, 
Vain your manifold disguises ! 
Well I know you, Pau-Puk-Keewis ! " 

With their clubs they beat and 
bruised him, 
Beat to death poor Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Pounded him as maize is pounded, 
Till his skull was crushed to pieces. 

Six tall hunters, lithe and limber, 
Bore him home on poles and branches, 
Bore the body of the beaver; 
But the ghost, the Jeebi in him, 
Thought and felt as Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Still lived on as Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

And it fluttered, strove, and strug- 
gled. 
Waving hither, waving thither, 
As the curtains of a wigwam 



Struggle with their thongs of deer- 
skin. 
When the wintry wind is blowing ; 
Till it drew itself together. 
Till it rose up from the body. 
Till it took the form and features 
Of the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Vanishing into the forest. 
But the wary Hiawatha 
Saw the figure ere it vanished. 
Saw the form of Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Glide into the soft blue shadow 
Of the pine-trees of the forest ; 
Toward the squares of white beyond 

it, 
Toward an opening in the forest. 
Like a wind it rushed and panted. 
Bending all the boughs before it, 
A.nd behind it, as the rain comes. 
Came the steps of Hiawatha. 

To a lake with many islands 
Came the breathless Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Where among the water-lilies 
Pishnekuh, the brant, were sailing ; 
Through the tufts of rushes floating, 
Steering through the reedy islands. 
Now their broad black beaks they 

lifted. 
Now they plunged beneath the water, 
Now they darkened in the shadow, 
Now they brightened in the sunshine. 
" Pishnekuh ! " cried Pau-Puk-Kee- 
wis, 
" Pishnekuh ! my brothers ! " said 

he, 
" Change me to a brant with plumage. 
With a shining neck and feathers, 
Make me large, and make me larger. 
Ten times larger than the others." 
Straightway to a brant they changed 
him, 
With two huge and dusky pinions. 
With a bosom smooth and rounded, 
With a bill like two great paddles, 
Made him larger than the others, 
Ten times larger than the largest. 
Just as, shouting from the forest. 
On the shore stood Hiawatha. 

Up they rose with cry and clamor, 
With a whir and beat of pinions, 



314 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



Rose up from the reedy islands, 
From the water-flags and hlies. 
And they said to Pau-Puk-Keewis : 
" In your flying, look not downward. 
Take good heed, and look not down- 
ward. 
Lest some strange mischance should 

happen. 
Lest some great mishap befall you ! " 
Fast and far they fled to northward. 
Fast and far through mist and sun- 
shine. 
Fed among the moors and fen-lands, 
Slept among the reeds and rushes. 

On the morrow as they journeyed, 
Buoyed and lifted by the South-wind, 
Wafted onward by the South-wind, 
Blowing fresh and strong behind 

them. 
Rose a sound of human voices, 
Rose a clamor from beneath them. 
From the lodges of a village. 
From the people miles beneath them. 

For the people of the village 
Saw the flock of brant with wonder. 
Saw the wings of Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Flapping far up in the ether. 
Broader than two doorway curtains. 
Pau-Puk-Keewis heard the shout- 
ing. 
Knew the voice of Hiawatha, 
Knew the outcry of lagoo. 
And, forgetful of the warning, 
Drew his neck in, and looked down- 
ward, 
And the wind that blew behind him 
Caught his mighty fan of feathers. 
Send him wheeling, whirling down- 
ward ! 
All in vain did Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Struggle to regain his balance ! 
Whirling round and round and down- 
ward, 
He beheld in turn the village 
And in turn the flock above him. 
Saw the village coming nearer, 
And the flock receding farther. 
Heard the voices growing louder, 
Heard the shouting and the laughter ; 
Saw no more the flock above him. 



Only saw the earth beneath him ; 
Dead out of the empty heaven, 
Dead among the shouting people, 
With a heavy sound and sullen. 
Fell the brant with broken pinions. 

But his soul, his ghost, his shadow, 
Still survived as Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Took again the form and features 
Of the handsome Yenadizze, 
And again went rushing onward, 
Followed fast by Hiawatha, 
Crying : " Not so wide the world is, 
Not so long and rough the way is, 
But my wrath shall overtake you. 
But my vengeance shall attain you !" 

And so near he came, so near him, 
That his hand was stretched to seize 

him, 
His right hand to seize and hold him, 
When the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Whirled and spun about in circles. 
Fanned the air into a whirlwind. 
Danced the dust and leaves about 

him. 
And amid the whirling eddies 
Sprang into a hollow oak-tree. 
Changed himself into a serpent, 
Gliding out through root and rubbish. 

With his right hand Hiawatha 
Smote amain the hollow oak-tree, 
Rent it into shreds and sphnters, 
Left it lying there in fragments. 
But in vain ; for Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Once again in human figure. 
Full in sight ran on before him. 
Sped away in gust and whirlwind, 
On the shores of Gitche Gumee, 
Westward by the Big-Sea-Water, 
Came unto the rocky headlands. 
To the Pictured Rocks of sandstone, 
Looking over lake and landscape. 

And the Old Man of the Moun- 
tain, 
He the Manito of Mountains, 
Opened wide his rocky doorways, 
Opened wide his deep abysses. 
Giving Pau-Puk-Keewis shelter 
Li his caverns dark and dreary. 
Bidding Pau-Puk-Keewis welcome 
To his gloomy lodge of sandstone. 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



315 



There without stood Hiawatha, 
Found the doorways closed against 

him, 
With his mittens, Minjekahwun, 
Smote great caverns in the sandstone. 
Cried aloud in tones of thunder, 
" Open ! I am Hiawatha ! " 
But the Old Man of the Mountain 
Opened not, and made no answer 
From the silent crags of sandstone, 
From the gloomy rock abysses. 

Then he raised his hands to heaven. 
Called imploring on the tempest, 
Called Waywassimo, the lightning, 
And the thunder, Annemeekee ; 
And they came with night and dark- 
ness, 
Sweeping down the Big-Sea-Water 
From the distant Thunder Moun- 
tains ; 
And the trembling Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Heard the footsteps of the thunder, 
Saw the red eyes of the lightning, 
Was afraid, and crouched and trem- 
bled. 
Then Waywassimo, the lightning. 
Smote the doorways of the caverns. 
With his war-club smote the door- 
ways. 
Smote the jutting crags of sandstone, 
And the thunder, Annemeekee, 
Shouted down into the caverns, 
Saying, "Where is Pau-Puk-Kee- 
wis ! " 
And the crags fell, and beneath them 
Dead among the rocky ruins 
Lay the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Lay the handsome Yenadizze, 
Slain in his own human figure. 

Ended were his wild adventures. 
Ended were his tricks and gambols, 
Ended all his craft and cunning. 
Ended all his mischief-making, 
All his gambling and his dancing, 
All his wooing of the maidens. 

Then the noble Hiawatha 
Took his soul, his ghost, his shadow, 
Spake and said : " O Pau-Puk-Kee- 
wis ! 
Never more in human figure 



Shall you search for new adventures ; 
Never more with jest and laughter 
Dance the dust and leaves in whirl- 
winds ; 
But above there in the heavens 
You shall soar and sail in circles ; 
I will change you to an eagle, 
To Keneu, the great war-eagle, 
Chief of all the fowls with feathers. 
Chief of Hiawatha's chickens." 

And the name of Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Lingers still among the people, 
Lingers still among the singers, 
And among the story-tellers ; 
And in Winter, when the snow-flakes 
Whirl in eddies round the lodges. 
When the wind in gusty tumult 
O'er the smoke-flue pipes and whis- 
tles, 
" There," they cry, " comes Pau-Puk- 
Keewis ; 
He is dancing through the village, 
He is gathering in his harvest!" 



XVHL 

THE DEATH OF KWASIND. 

Far and wide among the nations 
Spread the name and fame of Kwa- 

sind ; ■ 
No man dared to strive with Kwasind, 
No man could compete with Kwasind. 
But the mischievous Puk-Wudjies, 
They the envious Little People, 
They the fairies and the pygmies. 
Plotted and conspired against him. 
" If this hateful Kwasind," said 
they, 
" If this great, outrageous fellow 
Goes on thus a little longer. 
Tearing everything he touches. 
Rending everything to pieces, 
Filling all the world with wonder. 
What becomes of the Puk-Wudjies ? 
Who will care for the Puk-Wudjies ? 
He will tread us down like mush- 
rooms, 
Drive us all into the water. 
Give our bodies to be eaten 



3i6 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



By the wicked Nee-ba-naw-baigs, 
By the Spirits of the water! " 
So the angry Little People 
All conspired against the Strong 

Man, 
All conspired to murder Kwasind, 
Yes, to rid^the world of Kwasind, 
The audacious, overbearing. 
Heartless, haughty, dangerous Kwa- 
sind ! 
Now this wondrous strength of 
Kwasind 
In his crown alone was seated ; 
In his crown too was his weakness ; 
There alone could he be wounded, 
Nowhere else could weapon pierce 

him, 
Nowhere else could weapon harm him. 

Even there the only weapon 
That could wound him, that could 

slay him. 
Was the seed-cone of the pine-tree, 
Was the blue cone of the fir-tree. 
This was Kwasind's fatal secret, 
Known to no man among mortals ; 
But the cunning Little People, 
The Pak-Wudjies, knew the secret, 
Knew the only way to kill him. 

So they gathered cones together. 
Gathered seed-cones of the pine-tree, 
Gathered blue cones of the fir-tree. 
In the woods by Taquamenaw, 
Brought them to the river's margin, 
Heaped them in great piles together. 
Where the red rocks from the margin 
Jutting overhang the river. 
There they lay in wait for Kwasind, 
The malicious Little People. 

'T was an afternoon in Summer ; 
Very hot and still the air was. 
Very smooth the gliding river, 
Motionless the sleeping shadows ; 
Insects glistened in the sunshine, 
Insects skated on the water. 
Filled the drowsy air with buzzing. 
With a far-resounding war-cry. 

Down the river came the Strong. 
Man, 
In his birch-canoe came Kwasind, 
Floating slowly down the current 



Of the sluggish Taquamenaw, 
Very languid with the weather, 
Very sleepy with the silence. 

From the overhanging branches, 
From the tassels of the birch-trees. 
Soft the Spirit of Sleep descended ; 
By his airy hosts surrounded, 
His invisible attendants, 
Came the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin ; 
Like the burnished Dush-kwo-ne-she, 
Like a dragon-fly, he hovered 
O'er the drowsy head of Kwasind. 

To his ear there came a murmur 
As of waves upon a sea-shore, 
As of far-off tumbling waters, 
As of winds among the pine-trees ; 
And he felt upon his forehead 
Blows of little airy war-clubs. 
Wielded by the slumbrous legions 
Of the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin, 
As of some one breathing on him. 

At the first blow of their war-clubs 
Fell a drowsiness on Kwasind ; 
At the second blow they smote him, 
Motionless his paddle rested ; 
At the third, before his vision. 
Reeled the landscape into darkness, 
Very sound asleep was Kwasind. 

So he floated down the river. 
Like a blind man seated upright, 
Floated down the Taquamenaw, 
Underneath the trembling birch-trees, 
Underneath the wooded headlands. 
Underneath the war encampment 
Of the pygmies, the Puk-Wudjies. 

There they stood, all armed and 
waiting. 
Hurled the pine-cones down upon 

him. 
Struck him on his brawny shoulders, 
On his crown defenceless struck him. 
" Death to Kwasind ! " was the sud- 
den 
War-cry of the Little People. 

And he sideways swayed and tum- 
bled, 
Sideways fell into the river, 
Plunged beneath the sluggish water 
Headlong, as an otter plunges ; 
And the birch-canoe, abandoned. 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



2^7 



Drifted empty down the river, 
Bottom upward swerved and drifted : 
Nothing more was seen of Kwasind. 
But the memory of the Strong 

Man 
Lingered long among the people, 
And whenever through the forest 
Raged and roared the wintry tempest. 
And the branches, tossed and 

troubled, 
Creaked and groaned and split 

asunder, 
"Kwasind!" cried they; "that is 

Kwasind ! 
He is gathering in his fire-wood ! " 



XIX. 

THE GHOSTS. 

Never stoops the soaring vulture 
On his quarry in the desert, 
On the sick or wounded bison, 
But another vulture, watching 
From his high aerial look-out, 
Sees the downward plunge, and fol- 
lows ; 
And a third pursues the second, 
Coming from the invisible ether, 
First a speck, and then a vulture, 
Till the air is dark with pinions. 

So disasters come not singly ; 
But as if they watched and waited. 
Scanning one another's motions. 
When the first descends, the others 
Follow, follow, gathering flock-wise 
Round their victim, sick and wounded, 
First a shadow, then a sorrow. 
Till the air is dark with anguish. 

Now, o'er all the dreary Northland, 
Mighty Peboan, the Winter, 
Breathing on the lakes and rivers. 
Into stone had changed their waters. 
From his hair he shook the snow- 
flakes. 
Till the plains were strewn with 

whiteness. 
One uninterrupted level. 
As if, stooping, the Creator 



With his hand had smoothed them 
over. 
Through the forest, wide and wail- 
ing, 
Roamed the hunter on his snow- 
shoes ; 
In the village worked the women. 
Pounded maize, or dressed the deer- 
skin ; 
And the young men played together 
On the ice the noisy ball-play, 
On the plain the dance of snow-shoes. 

One dark evening, after sundown, 
In her wigwam Laughing Water 
Sat with old Nokomis, waiting 
For the steps of Hiawatha 
Homeward from the hunt returning. 
On their faces gleamed the fire- 
light, 
Painting them with streaks of crim- 
son. 
In the eyes of old Nokomis 
Glimmered like the watery moonlight, 
In the eyes of Laughing Water 
Glistened like the sun in water; 
And behind them crouched their 

shadows 
In the corners of the wigwam. 
And the smoke in wreaths above 

them 
Climbed and crowded through the 
smoke-flue. 
Then the curtain of the doorway 
From without was slowly lifted ; 
Brighter glowed the fire a moment. 
And a moment swerved the smoke- 
wreath. 
As two women entered softly, 
Passed the doorway uninvited. 
Without word of salutation, 
Without sign of recognition, 
Sat down in the farthest corner, 
Crouching low among the shadows. 
From their aspect and their gar- 
ments. 
Strangers seemed they in the village ; 
Very pale and haggard were they, 
As they sat there sad and silent. 
Trembling, cowering with the shad- 
ows. 



3i8 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



Was it the wind above the smoke- 
flue, 
Muttering down into the wigwam ? 
Was it the owl, the Koko-koho, 
Hooting from the dismal forest ? 
Sure a voice said in the silence : 
'' These are corpses clad in garments, 
These are ghosts that come to haunt 

you. 
From the kingdom of Ponemah, 
From the land of the Hereafter ! " 
Homeward now came Hiawatha 
From his hunting in the forest. 
With the snow upon his tresses, 
And the red deer on his shoulders. 
At the feet of Laughing Water 
Down he threw his lifeless burden ; 
Nobler, handsomer she thought him, 
Than when first he came to woo her. 
First threw down the deer before 

her. 
As a token of his wishes, 
As a promise of the future. 

Then he turned and saw the 
strangers. 
Cowering, crouching with the shad- 
ows ; 
Said within himself, "Who are they ? 
What strange guests has Minne- 
haha.'' " 
But he questioned not the strangers, 
Only spake to bid them welcome . 
To his lodge, his food, his fireside. 

When the evening meal was ready, 
And the deer had been divided, 
Both the pallid guests, the strangers, 
Springing from among the shadows, 
Seized upon the choicest portions. 
Seized the white fat of the roebuck. 
Set apart for Laughing Water, 
For the wife of Hiawatlia ; 
Without asking, without thanking, 
Eagerly devoured the morsels, 
Flitted back among the shadows 
In the corner of the wigwam. 

Not a word spake Hiawatha, 
Not a motion made Nokomis, 
Not a gesture Laughing Water ; 
Not a change came o'er their features ; 
Only Minnehaha softly 



Whispered, saying, "They are fam- 
ished ; 
Let them do what best delights 

them ; 
Let them eat, for they are famished." 
Many a daylight dawned and dark- 
ened. 
Many a night shook off the daylight 
As the pine shakes oif the snow-flakes 
From the midnight of its branches ; 
Day by day the guests unmoving 
Sat there silent in the wigwam ; 
But by night, in storm or starlight, 
Forth they went into the forest, 
Bringing fire-wood to the v/igwam. 
Bringing pine-cones for the burning, 
Always sad and always silent. 

And whenever Hiawatha 
Came from fishing or from hunting, 
When the evening meal was ready, 
And the food had been divided. 
Gliding from their darksome corner. 
Came the pallid guests, the strangers, 
Seized upon the choicest portions 
Set aside for Laughing Water, 
And without rebuke or question 
Flitted back among the shadows. 

Never once had Hiawatha 
By a word or look reproved them ; 
Never once had old Nokomis 
Made a gesture of impatience ; 
Never once had Laughing Water 
Shown resentment at the outrage. 
All had they endured in silence. 
That the rights of guest and stranger, 
That the virtue of free-giving, 
By a look might not be lessened. 
By a word might not be broken. 

Once at midnight Hiawatha, 
Ever wakeful, ever watchful. 
In the wigwam, dimly lighted 
By the brands that still were burning. 
By the glimmering, flickering fire- 
light, 
Heard a sighing, oft repeated, 
Heard a sobbing, as of sorrow. 

From his couch rose Hiawatha, 
From his shaggy hides of bison, 
Pushed aside the deer-skin curtain. 
Saw the pallid guests, the shadows, f 



I 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



319 



Sitting upright on their couches, 
Weeping in the silent midnight. 

And he said : " O guests ! why is it 
That your hearts are so afflicted, 
That you sob so in the midnight ? 
Has perchance the old Nokomis, 
Has my wife, my Minnehaha, 
Wronged or grieved you by unkind- 

ness, 
Failed in hospitable duties ?" 

Then the shadows ceased from 
weeping, 
Ceased from sobbing and lamenting, 
And they said, with gentle voices : 
'' We are ghosts of the departed. 
Souls of those wdio once were with 

you. 
From the realms of Chibiabos 
Hither have we come to try you. 
Hither have we come to warn you. 

'' Cries of grief and lamentation 
Reach us in the Blessed Islands ; 
Cries of anguish from the living, 
Calhng back their friends departed. 
Sadden us with useless sorrow. 
Therefore have we come to try you ; 
No one knows us, no one heeds us. 
We are but a burden to you. 
And we see that the departed 
Have no place among the living. 

"Think of this, O Hiawatha! 
Speak of it to all the people, 
That henceforward and forever 
They no more with lamentations 
Sadden the souls of the departed 
In the Islands of the Blessed. 

" Do not lay such heavy burdens 
In the graves of those you bury, 
Not such weight of furs and wampum. 
Not such weight of pots and kettles, 
For the spirits faint beneath them. 
Only give them food to carry, 
Only give them fire to light them, 

" Four days is the spirit's journey 
To the land of ghosts and shadows, 
Four its lonely niglit encampments ; 
Four times must their fires be lighted. 
Therefore, when the dead are buried, 
Let a fire, as night approaches, 
Four times on the grave be kindled, 



That the soul upon its journey 
May not lack the cheerful fire-light, 
May not grope about in darkness. 

''Farewell, noble Hiawatha! 
We have put you to the trial. 
To the proof have put your patience, 
By the insult of our presence. 
By the outrage of our actions. 
We have found you great and noble. 
Fail not in the greater trial. 
Faint not in the harder struggle." 

When they ceased, a sudden dark- 
ness 
Fell and filled the silent wigwam. 
Hiawatha heard a rustle 
As of garments trailing by him, 
Heard the curtain of the doorway 
Lifted by a hand he saw not. 
Felt the cold breath of the night air, 
For a moment saw the starlight ; 
But he saw the ghosts no longer. 
Saw no more the wandering spirits 
From the kingdom of Ponemah, 
From the land of the Hereafter. 



XX. 

THE FAMINE. 

O THE long and dreary Winter ! 
O the cold and cruel Winter ! 
Ever thicker, thicker, thicker 
Froze the ice on lake and river, 
Ever deeper, deeper, deeper 
Fell the snow o'er all the landscape, 
Fell the covering snow, and drifted 
Through the forest, round the village. 

Hardly from his buried wigwam 
Could the hunter force a passage ; 
With his mittens and his snow-shoes 
Vainly walked he through the forest, 
Sought for bird or beast and found 

none, 
Saw no track of deer or rabbit. 
In the snow beheld no footprints. 
In the ghastly, gleaming forest 
Fell, and could not rise from weak- 
ness, 
Perished there from cold and hunger. 

O the famine and the fever ! 



320 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



O the wasting of the famine ! 
O the blasting of the fever ! 
O the wailing of the children ! 

the anguish of the women ! 

All the earth was sick and famished ; 
Hungry was the air around them, 
Hungry was the sky above them, 
And the hungry stars in heaven 
Like the eyes of wolves glared at 
them ! 

Into Hiawatha's wigwam 
Came two other guests, as silent 
As the ghosts were, and as gloomy, 
Waited not to be invited. 
Did not parley at the doorway. 
Sat there without word of welcome 
In the seat of Laughing Water; 
Looked with haggard eyes and hollow 
At the face of Laughing Water. 

And the foremost said : " Behold 
me ! 

1 am Famine, Bukadawin!" 

And the other said : " Behold me ! 
I am Fever, Ahkosewin!" 

And the lovely Minnehaha 
Shuddered as they looked upon her. 
Shuddered at the words they uttered, 
Lay down on her bed in silence, 
Hid her face, but made no answer; 
Lay there trembling, freezing, burn- 
ing 
At the looks they cast upon her, 
At the fearful words they uttered. 

Forth into the empty forest 
Rushed the maddened Hiawatha ; 
In his heart was deadly sorrow, 
In his face a stony firmness ; 
On his brow the sweat of anguish 
Started, but it froze and fell not. 

Wrapped in furs and armed for 
hunting, 
With his mighty bow of ash-tree, 
With his quiver full of arrows, 
With his mittens, Minjekahwun, 
Into the vast and vacant forest 
On his snow-shoes strode he forward. 

" Gitche Manito, the Mighty ! " 
Cried he with his face uplifted 
In that bitter hour of anguish, 
" Give your children food, O father ! 



Give us food, or we must perish ! 
Give me food for Minnehaha, 
For my dying Minnehaha !" 

Through the far-resounding forest. 
Through the forest vast and vacant, 
Rang that cry of desolation. 
But there came no other answer 
Than the echo of his crying, 
Than the echo of the woodlands, 
" Minnehaha ! Minnehaha ! '' 

All day long roved Hiawatha 
In that melancholy forest. 
Through the shadow of whose thick- 
ets. 
In the pleasant days of Summer, 
Of that ne'er forgotten Summer, 
He had brought his young wife home- 
ward 
From the land of the Dacotahs ; 
When the birds sang in the thickets, 
And the streamlets laughed and glis- 
tened. 
And the air was full of fragrance, 
And the lovely Laughing Water 
Said with voice that did not tremble, 
" I will follow you, my husband ! " 

In the wigwam with Nokomis, 
With those gloomy guests, that 

watched her, 
With the Famine and the Fever, 
She was lying, the Beloved, 
She the dying Minnehaha. 

" Hark ! " she said ; '" I hear a rush- 
ing. 
Hear a roaring and a rushing. 
Hear the Falls of Minnehaha 
Calling to me from a distance ! " 
" No, my child ! " said old Nokomis, 
" 'T is the night-wind in the pine- 
trees ! " 
" Look ! " she said ; " I see my 
father 
Standing lonely at his doorway, 
Beckoning to me from his wigwam 
In the land of the Dacotahs ! " 
"No, my child!" said old Nokomis, 
" 'T is the smoke, that waves and 
beckons ! " 
" Ah ! " she said, " the eyes of Pau- 
guk 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



321 



Glare upon me in the darkness, 
I can feel his icy fingers 
Clasping mine amid the darkness ! 
Hiawatha ! Hiawatha ! ^' 

And the desolate Hiawatha, 
Far away amid the forest, 
Miles away among the mountains, 
Heard that sudden cry of anguish, 
Heard the voice of Minnehaha 
Calling to him in the darkness, 
" Hiawatha ! Hiawatha ! " 

Over snow-fields waste and path- 
less, 
Under snow-encumbered branches, 
Homeward hurried Hiawatha, 
Empty-handed, heavy-hearted. 
Heard Nokomis moaning, wailing : 
" Wahonowin ! Wahonowin ! 
Would that I had perished for you, 
Would that I were dead as you are ! 
Wahonowin ! Wahonowin ! " 

And he rushed into the wigwam, 
Saw the old Nokomis slowly 
Rocking to and fro and moaning, 
Saw his lovely Minnehaha 
Lying dead and cold before him, 
And his bursting heart within him 
Uttered such a cry of anguish, 
That the forest moaned and shud- 
dered, 
That the very stars in heaven 
Shook and trembled with his anguish. 
Then he sat down, still and speech- 
less, 
On the bed of Minnehaha, 
At the feet of Laughing Water, 
At those willing feet, that never 
More would lightly run to meet him. 
Never more would lightly follow. 
With both hands his face he cov- 
ered. 
Seven long days and nights he sat 

there, 
As if in a swoon he sat there 
Speechless, motionless, unconscious 
Of the daylight or the darkness. 
Then they buried Minnehaha; 
In the snow a grave they made her, 
In the forest deep and darksome, 
Underneath the moaning hemlocks ; 



Clothed her in her richest garments, 
Wrapped her in her robes of ermine. 
Covered her with snow, like ermine ; 
Thus they buried Minnehaha. 

And at night a fire was lighted. 
On her grave four times was kindled. 
For her soul upon its journey 
To the Islands of the Blessed. 
From his doorway Hiawatha 
Saw it burning in the forest. 
Lighting up the gloomy hemlocks ; 
From his sleepless bed uprising. 
From the bed of Minnehaha, 
Stood and watched it at the doorway, 
That it might not be extinguished. 
Might not leave her in the darkness. 

'' Farewell ! " said he, " Minnehaha ! 
Farewell, O my Laughing Water ! 
All my heart is buried with you. 
All my thoughts go onward with you ! 
Come not back again to labor. 
Come not back again to suffer, 
Where the Famine and the Fever 
Wear the heart and waste the body. 
Soon my task will be completed, 
Soon your footsteps I shall follow 
To the Islands of the Blessed, 
To the Kingdom of Ponemah, 
To the Land of the Hereafter ! " 



XXL 

THE WHITE man's FOOT. 

In his lodge beside a river. 
Close beside a frozen river. 
Sat an old man, sad and lonely. 
White his hair was as a snow-drift ; 
Dull and low his fire was burning, 
And the old man shook and trembled, 
Folded in his Waubewyon, 
In his tattered white-skin-wrapper, 
Hearing nothing but the tempest 
As it roared along the forest. 
Seeing nothing but the snow-storm, 
As it whirled and hissed and drifted. 
All the coals were white with ashes, 
And the fire was slowly dying. 
As a young man, walking lightly, 
At the open doorway entered. 



322 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



Red with blood of youth his cheeks 

were, 
Soft his eyes, as stars in Spring-time, 
Bound his forehead was with grasses ; 
Bound and plumed with scented 

grasses. 
On his lips a smile of beauty. 
Filling all the lodge with sunshine, 
In his hand a bunch of blossoms 
Filling all the lodge with sweetness. 
"Ah, my son!" exclaimed the old 
man, 
" Happy are my eyes to see you. 
Sit here on the mat beside me, 
Sit here by the dying embers, 
Let us pass the night together. 
Tell me of your strange adventures. 
Of the lands where you have travelled ; 
I will tell you of my prowess, 
Of my many deeds of wonder." 
From his pouch he drew his peace- 
pipe, 
Very old and strangely fashioned ; 
Made of red stone was the pipe-head, 
And the stem a reed with feathers ; 
Filled the pipe with bark of willow, 
Placed a burning coal upon it, 
Gave it to his guest, the stranger, 
And began to speak in this wise : 

" When I blow my breath about me, 
When I breathe upon the landscape. 
Motionless are all the rivers. 
Hard as stone becomes the water ! " 
And the young man answered, smil- 
ing: 
" When I blow my breath about me, 
When I breathe upon the landscape. 
Flowers spring up o'er all the mead- 
ows, 
Singing, onward rush the rivers ! " 

" When I shake my hoary tresses," 
Said the old man, darkly frowning, 
" All the land with snow is covered ; 
All the leaves from all the branches 
Fall and fade and die and wither. 
For I breathe, and lo ! they are not. 
From the waters and the marshes 
Rise the wild goose and the heron, 
Fly away to distant regions. 
For I speak, and lo ! they are not. 



And where'er my footsteps wander, 
All the wild beasts of the forest 
Hide themselves in holes and caverns. 
And the earth becomes as flint- 
stone ! " 
" When I shake my flowing ring- 
lets," 
Said the young man, softly laughing, 
"Showers of rain fall warm and wel- 
come. 
Plants lift up their heads rejoicing. 
Back unto their lakes and marshes 
Come the wild goose and the heron. 
Homeward shoots the arrowy swallow, 
Sing the blue-bird and the robin. 
And where'er my footsteps wander. 
All the meadows v/ave with blossoms, 
All the woodlands ring with music, 
All the trees are dark with foliage ! " 
While they spake, the night de- 
parted ; 
From the distant realms of Wabun, 
From his shining lodge of silver. 
Like a warrior robed and painted. 
Came the sun, and said, " 13ehold me ! 
Gheezis, the great sun, behold me ! " 
Then the old man's tongue was 
speechless, 
And the air grew warm and pleasant, 
And upon the wigwam sweetly 
Sang the blue-bird and the robin. 
And the stream began to murmur, 
And a scent of growing grasses 
Through the lodge was gently wafted. 
And Segwun, the youthful stranger, 
More distinctly in the daylight 
Saw the icy face before him ; 
It was Peboan, the Winter ! 

From his eyes the tears were flow- 
ing, 
As from melting lakes the streamlets. 
And his body shrunk and dwindled 
As the shouting sun ascended, 
Till into the air it faded, 
Till into the ground it vanished. 
And the young man saw before him, 
On the hearth-stone of the wigwam. 
Where the fire had smoked and 

smouldered. 
Saw the earliest flower of Spring-time, 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



323 



Saw the Beauty of the Spring-time, 
Saw the Miskodeecl in blossom. 

Thus it was that in the Northland 
After that unheard-of coldnessj 
That intolerable Winter, 
Came the Spring with all its splendor, 
All its birds and all its blossoms, 
All its flowers and leaves and grasses. 

Sailing on the wind to northward, 
Flying in great flocks, like arrows, 
Like huge arrow^s shot through heaven. 
Passed the swan, the Mahnahbezee, 
Speaking almost as a man speaks ; 
And in long lines waving, bending 
Like a bow-string snapped asunder. 
Came the white goose, VVaw-be-wawa ; 
And in pairs, or singly flying, 
Mahng the loon, with clangorous pin- 
ions, 
The blue heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
And the grouse, the Mushkodasa. 

In the thickets and the meadows 
Piped the blue-bird, the Owaissa, 
On the summit of the lodges 
Sang the robin, the Opechee, 
In the covert of the pine-trees 
Cooed the pigeon, the Omeme, 
And the sorrowing Hiawatha, 
Speechless in his infinite sorrow, 
Heard their voices calling to him. 
Went forth from his gloomy doorway. 
Stood and gazed into the heaven. 
Gazed upon the earth and waters. 

From his wanderings far to east- 
ward. 
From the regions of the morning. 
From the shining land of Wabun, 
Homeward now returned lagoo. 
The great traveller, the great boaster. 
Full of new and strange adventures, 
Marvels many and many wonders. 

And the people of the village 
Listened to him as he told them 
Of his marvellous adventures. 
Laughing answered him in this wise : 
"Ugh ! it is indeed lagoo ! 
No one else beholds such wonders ! " 

He had seen, he said, a water 
Bigger than the Big-Sea-Water, 
Broader than the Gitche Gumee, 



Bitter so that none could drink it ! 
At each other looked the warriors. 
Looked the women at each other. 
Smiled, and said, " It cannot be so ! 
Kaw ! " they said, " it cannot be so ! " 

O'er it, said he, o'er this water 
Came a great canoe with pinions, 
A canoe with wings came flying. 
Bigger than a grove of pine-trees, 
Taller than the tallest tree-tops ! 
And the old men and the women 
Looked and tittered at each other ; 
" Kaw ! " they said, " we don't believe 
it!" 

From its mouth, he said, to greet 
him, 
Came Waywassimo, the lightning, 
Came the thunder, Annemeekee ! 
And the warriors and the women 
Laughed aloud at poor lagoo ; 
"Kaw!" they said, "what tales you 
tell us ! " 

In it, said he, came a people. 
In the great canoe with pinions 
Came, he said, a hundred warriors ; 
Painted white were all their faces, 
And with hair their chins were cov- 
ered ! 
And the warriors and the women 
Laughed and shouted in derision. 
Like the ravens on the tree-tops, 
Like the crows upon the hemlocks. 
" Kaw ! " they said, "what lies you tell 

us. 
Do not think that we believe them ! " 

Only Hiawatha laughed not. 
But he gravely spake and answered 
To their jeering and their jesting : 
" True is all lagoo tells us ; 
I have seen it in a vision. 
Seen the great canoe with pinions, 
Seen the people with white faces, 
Seen the coming of this bearded 
People of the wooden vessel 
From the regions of the morning, 
From the shining land of Wabun. 

" Gitche Manito, the Mighty, 
The Great Spirit, the Creator, 
Sends them hither on his errand. 
Sends them to us with his message. 



324 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



1 



Wheresoever they move, before them 
Swarms the stinging fly, the Ahmo, 
Swarms the bee, the honey-maker ; 
Wheresoever they tread, beneath them 
Springs a flower unknown among us, 
Springs the Wliite-man's Foot in 
blossom. 
" Let us welcome, then, the stran- 
gers. 
Hail them as our friends and brothers, 
And the heart's right hand of friend- 
ship 
Give them when they come to see us. 
Gitche Manito, the Mighty, 
Said this to me in my vision. 

"I beheld, too, in that vision, 
All the secrets of the future, 
Of the distant days that shall be. 
I beheld the westward marches 
Of the unknown, crowded nations. 
All the land was full of people, 
Restless, struggling, toiling, striving, 
Speaking many tongues, yet feeling 
But one heart-beat in their bosoms. 
In the woodlands rang their axes. 
Smoked their towns in all their val- 
leys, 
Over all the lakes and rivers 
Rushed their great canoes of thunder. 

" Then a darker, drearier vision. 
Passed before me, vague and cloud- 
like. 
I beheld our nations scattered, 
All forgetful of my counsels. 
Weakened, warring with each other ; 
Saw the remnants of our people 
Sweeping westward, wild and woful, 
Like the cloud-rack of a tempest, 
Like the withered leaves of autumn ! ■' 

xxn. 

HIAWATHA'S DEPARTURE. 

By the shore of Gitche Gumee, 
By the shining Big- Sea-Water, 
At the doorway of his wigwam. 
In the pleasant Summer morning, 
Hiawatha stood and waited. 
All the air was full of freshness, 



All the earth was bright and joyous. 
And before him, through the sun- 
shine. 
Westward toward the neighboring 

forest 
Passed in golden swarms the Ahmo, 
Passed the bees, the honey-makers. 
Burning, singing in the sunshine. 
Bright above him shone the heav- 
ens. 
Level spread the lake before him ; 
From its bosom leaped the sturgeon, 
Sparkling, flashing in the sunshine ; 
On its margin the great forest 
Stood reflected in the water, 
Every tree-top had its shadow, 
Motionless beneath the water. 
From the brow of Hiawatha 
Gone was every trace of sorrow, 
As the fog from ofi" the water. 
As the mist from off the meadow. 
With a smile of joy and triumph, 
With a look of exultation, 
As of one who in a vision 
Sees what is to be, but is not. 
Stood and waited Hiawatha. 

Toward the sun his hands were 
lifted. 
Both the palms spread out against it. 
And between the parted fingers 
Fell the sunshine on his features. 
Flecked with light his naked shoul- 
ders. 
As it falls and flecks an oak-tree 
Through the rifted leaves and 
branches. 
O'er the water floating, flying, 
Something in the hazy distance, 
Something in the mists of morning, 
Loomed and lifted from the water. 
Now seemed floating, now seemed 

flying, 
Com.ing nearer, nearer, nearer. 
Was it Shingebis the diver ? 
Was it the pelican, the Shada ? 
Or the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah ? 
Or the white goose, Waw-be-wawa, 
With the water dripping, flashing 
From its glossy neck and feathers ? 
It was neither goose nor diver, 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



325 



Neither pelican nor heron, 
O'er the water floating, flying. 
Through the shining mist of morning, 
But a birch-canoe with paddles, 
Rising, sinking on the water, 
Dripping, flashing in the sunshine, 
And within it came a people 
From the distant land of Wabun, 
From the farthest realms of morning 
Came the Black-Robe chief, the 

Prophet, 
He the Priest of Prayer, the Pale- 
face, 
With his guides and his companions. 

And the noble Hiawatha, 
With his hands aloft extended. 
Held aloft in sign of welcome. 
Waited, full of exultation. 
Till the birch canoe with paddles 
Grated on the shining pebbles. 
Stranded on the sandy margin. 
Till the Black-Robe chief, the Pale- 
face, 
With the cross upon his bosom, 
Landed on the sandy margin. 
Then the joyous Hiawatha 
Cried aloud and spake in this wise : 
" Beautiful is the sun, O strangers, 
When you come so far to see us ! 
All our town in peace awaits you, 
All our doors stand open for you ; 
You shall enter all our wigwams. 
For the heart's right hand we give 
you. 
" Never bloomed the earth so 

Never shone the sun so brightly. 
As to-day they shine and blossom 
When you come so far to see us ! 
Never was our lake so tranquil. 
Nor so free from rocks and sand- 
bars ; 
For your birch canoe in passing 
Has removed both rock and sand- 
bar ! 
" Never before had our tobacco 
Such a sweet and pleasant flavor, 
Never the broad leaves of our corn- 
fields 
Were so beautiful to look on. 



As they seem to us this morning. 
When you come so far to see us ! " 

And the Black-Robe chief made 
answer. 
Stammered in his speech a little, 
Speaking words yet unfamiliar : 
'' Peace be with you, Hiawatha, 
Peace be with you and your people, 
Peace of prayer, and peace of pardon, 
Peace of Christ, and joy of iVlary ! " 

Then the generous Hiawatha 
Led the strangers to his wigwam, 
Seated them on skins of bison, 
Seated them on skins of ermine. 
And the careful, old Nokomis 
Brought them food in bowls of bass- 
wood. 
Water brought in birchen dippers. 
And the calumet, the peace-pipe. 
Filled and lighted for their smoking. 

All the old men of the village, 
All the warriors of the nation. 
All the Jossakeeds, the prophets, 
The magicians, the Wabenos, 
And the medicine-men, the Medas, 
Came to bid the strangers welcome ; 
" It is well," they said, '' O brothers, 
That you come so far to see us ! " 

In a circle round the doorway. 
With their pipes they sat in silence, 
Waiting to behold the strangers. 
Waiting to receive their message ; 
Till the Black-Robe chief, the Pale- 
face, 
From the wigwam came to greet 

them, 
Stammering in his speech a little. 
Speaking words yet unfamiliar ; 
" It is well," they said, " O brother. 
That you come so far to see us ! " 

Then the Black-Robe chief, the 
prophet. 
Told his message to the people, 
Told the purport of his mission, 
Told them of the Virgin Mary, 
And her blessed Son, the Saviour, 
How in distant lands and ages 
He had lived on earth as we do ; 
How he fasted, prayed, and labored ; 
How the Jews, the tribe accursed, 



326 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



Mocked him, scourged him, crucified 

him ; 
How he rose from where they laid him ; 
Walked again with his disciples, 
And ascended into heaven. 

And the chiefs made answer, say- 
ing: 
" We have listened to your message, 
We have heard your words of wis- 
dom, 
We will think on what you tell us. 
It is well for us, O brothers. 
That you come so far to see us ! " 
Then they rose up and departed 
Each one homeward to his wigwam. 
To the young men and the women 
Told the story of the strangers 
Whom the Master of Life had sent 

them 
From the shining land of Wabun. 
Heavy with the heat and silence 
Grew the afternoon of Summer ; 
With a drowsy sound the forest 
Whispered round the sultry wigwam. 
With a sound of sleep the water 
Rippled on the beach below it ; 
From the corn-fields shrill and cease- 
less 
Sang the grasshopper, Pah-Puk- 

keena ; 
And the guests of Hiawatha, 
Weary with the heat of Summer, 
Slumbered in the sultry wigwam. 
Slowly o'er the simmering land- 
scape 
Fell the evening's dusk and cool- 
ness, 
And the long and level sunbeams 
Shot their spears into the forest, 
Breaking through its shields of 

shadow. 
Rushed into each secret ambush. 
Searched each thicket, dingle, hollow ; 
Still the guests of Hiawatha 
Slumbered in the silent wigwam. 
From his place rose Hiawatha, 
Bade farewell to old Nokomis, 
Spake in whispers, spake in this wise, 
Did not wake the guests, that slum- 
bered : 



" I am going, O Nokomis, 
On a long and distant journey. 
To the portals of the Sunset, 
To the regions of the home-wind. 
Of the Northwest-Wind, Keewaydin. 
But these guests I leave behind me, 
In your watch and ward I leave them ; 
See that never harm comes near them, 
See that never fear molests them. 
Never danger nor suspicion, 
Never want of food or shelter. 
In the lodge of Hiawatha !" 

Forth into the village went he. 
Bade farewell to all the warriors. 
Bade farewell to all the young men. 
Spake persuading, spake in this wise : 

" I am going, O my people, 
On a long and distant journey ; 
Many moons and many winters 
Will have come, and will have van- 
ished. 
Ere I come again to see you. 
But my guests I leave behind me ; 
Listen to their words of wisdom. 
Listen to the truth they tell you. 
For the Master of Life has sent them 
From the land of light and morning ! " 

On the shore stood Hiawatha, 
Turned and waved his hand at part- 
ing ; • 
On the clear and luminous water 
Launched his birch-canoe for sailing. 
From the pebbles of the margin 
Shoved it forth into the water; 
Whispered to it, " Westward ! west- 
ward ! " 
And with speed it darted forward. 

And the evening sun descending 
Set the clouds on fire with redness. 
Burned the broad sky, like a prairie. 
Left upon the level water 
One long track and trail of splendor, 
Down whose stream, as down a river. 
Westward, westward Hiawatha 
Sailed into the fiery sunset, 
Sailed into the purple vapors, 
Sailed into the dusk of evening. 

And the people from the margin 
Watched him floating, rising, sinking, 
Till the birch-canoe seemed lifted 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



327 



High into that sea of splendor, 
Till it sank into the vapors 
Like the new moon slowly, slowly 
Sinking in the purple distance. 

And they said, " Farewell forever !" 
Said, " Farewell, O Hiawatha ! " 
And the forests, dark and lonely. 
Moved through all their depths of 

darkness. 
Sighed, '' Farewell, O Hiawatha ! " 
And the waves upon the margin 
Rising, ripphng on the pebbles. 
Sobbed, "Farewell, O Hiawatha !" 



And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
From her haunts among the fen-lands. 
Screamed, '" Farewell, O Hiawa- 
tha ! " 
Thus departed Hiawatha, 
Hiawatha the Beloved, 
In the glory of the sunset. 
In the purple mists of evening. 
To the regions of the home-wind. 
Of the Northwest-Wind, Keewaydin, 
To the Islands of the Blessed, 
To the kingdom of Ponemah, 
To the land of the Hereafter ! 



328 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



VOCABULARY. 



Adjidau'mo, the red squirrel. 

Ahdeek', the reindeer. 

Ahkose'win.y^z^^r. 

Ahmeek', the beaver. 

Algon'quin, Ojibway. 

Annemee'kee, the thunder. 

Apuk'wa, a btilrush. 

Baim-vva'wa, the sound of the thunder. 

Bemah'gut, the grape-vine, 

Be'na, the pheasant. 

Big-Sea- Water, Lake Superior. 

Bukada'win,ya;«w?^. 

Cheemaun', a birch canoe. 

Chetowaik', the plover. 

Chibia'bos, a musician; friend of Hiawa- 
tha ; ruler in the Land of Spirits. 

Dahin'da, the bull-frog. 

Dush-kwo-ne'-she or Kwo-ne'-she, the 
dragon-fly. 

Esa, shame upon you, 

Ewa-yea', lullaby. 

Ghee'zis, the sun. 

Gitche Gu'mee, the Big- Sea-Water, Lake 
Superior. 

Gitche Man'ito, the Great Spirit, the Master 
of Life. 

Gushkewau', the darkness. 

Hiawa'tha, the Wise Man f he Teacher; son 
of Aiudjekeewis, the li 'est Wind, and We- 
nonah, daughter of Nokomis. 

la'goo, a great boaster and story-teller . 

Inin'ewug, men, or pawns, in the Game of 
the Bowl. 

Ishkoodah'.yfr,?; a comet. 

Jee'bi, a ghost, a spirit. 

Joss'akeed, a prophet. 

Kabibonok'ka, the North-Wind. 

Kagh, the hedgehog. 

Ka'go, do not. 

Kahgahgee', the raven. 

Kaw, no. 

Kaween', no indeed. 

Kayoshk', the sea-gull. 

Kee'go, a fish. 

Keeway'din, the Northwest- Wind, the Home- 
wind. 

Kena'beek, a serpent. 

Keneu', the great war-eagle. 

Keno'zha, the pickerel. 

Ko'ko-ko'ho, the owl. 

Kuntasoo', the Game of Plum-stones. 

Kwa'sind, the Strong Man. 

Kwo-ne'-she or Dush-kwo-ne'-she, the 
dragon-fly. 



Mahnahbe'zee, the stvan. 

Mahng, the loon. 

Mahn-go-tay'see, loon-hearted, brave. 

Mahnomo'nee, wild rice. 

Ma' ma, the woodpecker. 

Maskeno'zha, the pike. 

Me'da, a ?nedicine-man. 

Meenah'ga, the blueberry. 

Megissog'won, the great Pearl-Feather, a 

magician, and the Manito of Wealth. 
Meshinau'wa, a pipe-bearer. 
Minjekah'wun, Hiawatha's mittens. 
Minneha'ha, Laughing Water ; a water-fall 

on a stream running into the Mississippi, 

betweetz Fort Snelling and the Falls of 

St. Anthony. 
Minneha'ha, Laughing Water; wife of 

Hiawatha. 
Minne-wa'wa, a pleasant sound, as of the 

wind in the trees. 
Mishe-Mo'kwa, the Great Bear. 
Mishe-Nah'ma, the Great Sturgeon. 
Miskodeed', the Spring- Beauty, the Clayto- 

nia Virginica. 
Monda'min, Indian corn. 
Moon of Bright Nights, April. 
Moon of Leaves, May. 
Moon of Strawberries, June. 
Moon of the Falling Leaves, September. 
Moon of Snow-Shoes, November. 
Mudjekee'wis, the West Wind; father of 

Hiawatha. 
Mudway-aush'ka, sound of waves on a 

shore. 
Mushkoda'sa, the grouse. 
Nah'ma, the sturgeon. 
Nah'ma-wusk, spearmint. 
Na'gow Wudj'oo, the Sand Dunes of Lake 

Superior. 
Nee-ba-naw'baigs, water-spirits. 
Nenemoo'sha, sweetheart. 
Nepah'win, sleep. 
Noko'mis, a grandmother ; mother of We- 

nonah. 
No'sa, my father. 
Nush'ka, look! look! 
Odah'min, the strawberry. 
Okahah'wis, the fresh-water herring. 
Ome'me, the pigeoTi. 
Ona'gon, a boivl. 
Onaway', awake. 
Ope'chee, the robin. 
Osse'o, Son of the Evening Star. 
Owais'sa, the blue-bird. 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



329 



Oweenee', wife of Osseo. 


Shin'gebis, the diver, or grebe. 


Ozawa'beek, a round piece of brass or cop- 


Showain' neme'shin,//!/v me. 


per ifi the Game of the Bowl. 


Shuh-shuh'gah, the blue heron. 


Pah-puk-kee'na, the grasshopper. 


Soan-ge-ta'ha, strong-hearted. 


Pau'guk, death. 


Subbeka'she, the spider. 


Pau-Puk-Kee'wis, the handsome Yenadizze, 


Sugge'ma, the mosquito. 


the Stor7n Fool. 


To'tem, family coat-of-arms. 


Pauwa'ting, Sault Sainte Marie. 


Ugh, yes. 


Pe'boan, Winter. 


Ugudwash', the sun-fish. 


Pemi'can, meat of the deer or buffalo dried 


Unktahee', the God of Water. 


and pounded. 


Wabas'so, the rabbit ; the North. 


Pezhekee', the bison. 


Wabe'no, a magician, a juggler. 


Pishnekuh', the brant. 


Wabe'no-wusk, yarrow. 


Pone'mah, hereafter. 


Wa'bun, the East- liind. 


Pugasaing', Game of the Bowl. 


Wa'bun An'nung, the Star of the East, the 


Puggawau'gun, a war-club. 


Morning Star. 


Puk-Wudj'ies, little wild ?>ien of the woods ; 


Wahono'win, a cry of lamentation. 


pygmies. 


Wah-wah-tay'see, the fire-fiy. 


Sah-sah-je'wun, rapids. 


Wam'pum, beads of shell. 


Sah'wa, the perch. 


Waubewy'on, a white skin wrapper. 


Segwun', Spring. 


Wa'wa, the ivild goose. 


Sha'da, the pelican. 


Waw'beek, a rock. 


Shahbo'min, the gooseberry. 


Waw-be-wa'wa, tie white goose. 


Shah'shah, long ago. 


Wawonais'sa, the whippoorivill. 


Shaugoda'ya, a coward. 


Way-muk-kwa'na, the caterpillar. 


Shawgashee, the crawfish. 


Wen'digoes, giants. 


Shawonda'see, the South- Wind. 


Weno'nah, h iazvatha s tnother, daughter of 


Shaw'shaw, the swallow. 


Nokomis. 


Shesh'ebwug, ducks ; pieces in the Game of 


Yenadiz'ze, a;z idler and gambler ; an Indian 


the Bowl. 


dandy. 



330 



THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 



THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH, 1858. 



MILES STANDISH. 

In the Old Colony days, in Plymouth 
the land of the Pilgrims, 

To and fro in a room of his simple 
and primitive dwelling, 

Clad in doublet and hose, and boots 
of Cordovan leather, 

Strode, v^^ith a martial air. Miles Stan- 
dish the Puritan Captain. 

Buried in thought he seemed, with his 
hands behind him, and pausing 

Ever and anon to behold his glittering 
weapons of warfare. 

Hanging in shining array along the 
walls of the chamber, — 

Cutlass and corselet of steel, and his 
trusty sword of Damascus, 

Curved at the point and inscribed with 
its mystical Arabic sentence, 

While underneath, in a corner, were 
fowling-piece, musket, and match- 
lock. 

Short of stature he was, but strongly 
built and athletic. 

Broad in the shoulders, deep-chested, 
with muscles and sinews of iron ; 

Brown as a nut was his face, but his 
russet beard was already 

Flaked with patches of snow, as hedges 
sometimes in November. 

Near him was seated John Alden, his 
friend and household companion. 

Writing with diligent speed at a table 
of pine by the window ; 

Fair-haired, azure-eyed, with delicate 
Saxon complexion. 

Having the dew of his youth, and the 
beauty thereof, as the captives 

Whom Saint Gregory saw, and ex- 
claimed, "Not Angles but An- 
gels." 



Youngest of all was he of the men who 
came in the May Flower. 

Suddenly breaking the silence, the 

diligent scribe interrupting. 
Spake, in the pride of his heart, Miles 

Standish the Captain of Plymouth. 
" Look at these arms," he said, " the 

warlike weapons that hang here, 
Burnished and bright and clean, as if 

for parade or inspection ! 
This is the sword of Damascus I fought 

with in Flanders; this breastplate, 
Well I remember the day ! once saved 

my life in a skirmish ; 
Here in front you can see the very 

dint of the bullet 
Fired point-blank at my heart by a 

Spanish arcabucero. 
Had it not been of sheer steel, the for- 
gotten bones of Miles Standish 
Would at this moment be mould, in 

their grave in the Flemish mo- 
rasses." 
Thereupon answered John Alden, but 

looked not up from his writing : 
"Truly the breath of the Lord hath 

slackened the speed of the bullet ; 
He in his mercy preserved you, to be 

our shield and our weapon ! " 
Still the Captain continued, unheeding 

the words of the stripling : 
" See, how bright they are burnished, 

as if in an arsenal hanging ; 
That is because I have done it myself, 

and not left it to others. 
Serve yourself, would you be well 

served, is an excellent adage ; 
So I take care of my arms, as you of 

your pens and your inkhorn. 
Then, too, there are my soldiers, my 

great, invincible army. 
Twelve men, all equipped, having each 

his rest and his matchlock, 



THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 



33^ 



Eighteen shillings a month, together 

with diet and pillage, 
And, like Caesar, I know the name of 

each of my soldiers ! " 
This he said with a smile, that danced 

in his eyes, as the sunbeams 
Dance on the waves of the sea, and 

vanish again in a moment. 
Alden laughed as he wrote, and still 

the Captain continued : 
" Look ! you can see from this window 

my brazen howitzer planted 
High on the roof of the church, a 

preacher who speaks to the pur- 
pose, 
Steady, straight-forward, and strong, 

with irresistible logic, 
Orthodox, flashing conviction right 

into the hearts of the heathen. 
Now we are ready, I think, for any 

assault of the Indians ; 
Let them come, if they like, and the 

sooner they try it the better, — 
Let them come if they like, be it saga- 
more, sachem, or pow-wow, 
Aspinet, Samoset, Corbitant, Squanto, 

or Tokamahamon ! " 

Long at the window he stood, 
and wistfully gazed on the land- 
scape. 

Washed with a cold gray mist, the 
vapory breath of the east-wind, 

Forest and meadow and hill, and the 
steel-blue rim of the ocean. 

Lying silent and sad, in the afternoon 
shadows and sunshine. 

Over his countenance flitted a shadow 
like those on the landscape, 

Gloom intermingled with light ; and 
his voice was subdued with emo- 
tion, 

Tenderness, pity, regret, as after a 
pause he proceeded : 

" Yonder there, on the hill by the sea, 
lies buried Rose Standish ; 

Beautiful rose of love, that bloomed 
for me by the wayside ! 

She was the first to die of all who 
came in the May Flower ! 



Green above her is growing the field 
of wheat we have sown there. 

Better to hide from the Indian scouts 
the graves of our people. 

Lest they should count them and see 
how many already have per- 
ished ! " 

Sadly his face he averted, and strode 
up and down, and was thoughtful. 

Fixed to the opposite wall was a 

shelf of books, and among them 
Prominent three, distinguished alike 

for bulk and for binding ; 
Barifi^e's Artillery Guide, and the 

Commentaries of Caesar, 
Out of the Latin translated by Arthur 

Goldinge of London, 
And, as if guarded by these, between 

them was standing the Bible. 
Musing a moment before them. Miles 

Standish paused, as if doubtful 
Which of the three he should choose 

for his consolation and comfort, 
Whether the wars of the Hebrews, 

the famous campaigns of the 

Romans, 
Or the Artillery practice, designed 

for belligerent Christians. 
Finally down from its shelf he 

dragged the ponderous Roman, 
Seated himself at the window, and 

opened the book, and in silence 
Turned o'er the well-worn leaves, 

where thumb-marks thick on the 

margin. 
Like the trample of feet, proclaimed 

the battle was hottest. 
Nothing was heard in the room but 

the hurrying pen of the stripling, 
Busily writing epistles important, to 

go by the May Flower, 
Ready to sail on the morrow, or next 

day at latest, God willing ! 
Homeward bound with the tidings of 

all that terrible winter. 
Letters written by Alden, and full of 

the name of Priscilla, 
Full of the name and the fame of the 

Puritan maiden Priscilla ! 



332 



THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 



II. 

LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 

Nothing was heard in the room but 

the hurrying pen of the stripling, 
Or an occasional sigh from the labor- 
ing heart of the Captain, 
Reading the marvellous words and 

achievements of Julius Caesar. 
After a while he exclaimed, as he 

smote with his hand, palm down- 
wards. 
Heavily on the page : " A wonderful 

man was this Caesar ! 
You are a writer, and I am a fighter, 

but here is a fellow 
Who could both write and fight, and 

in both was equally skilful ! " 
Straightway answered and spake John 

Alden, the comely, the youthful : 
" Yes, he was equally skilled, as you 

say, with his pen and his weapons. 
Somewhere have I read, but where I 

forget, he could dictate 
Seven letters at once, at the same 

time writing his memoirs." 
"Truly," continued the Captain, not 

heeding or hearing the other, 
"Truly a wonderful man was Caius 

Julius Caesar ! 
Better be first, he said, in a little 

Iberian village, 
Than be second in Rome, and I 

think he was right when he said 

it. 
Twice was he married before he was 

twenty, and many times after ; 
Battles five hundred he fought, and 

a thousand cities he conquered ; 
He, too, fought in Flanders, as he 

himself has recorded ; 
Finally he was stabbed by his friend, 

the orator Brutus ! 
Now, do you know what he did on a 

certain occasion in Flanders, 
When the rear-guard of his army re- 
treated, the front giving way too. 
And the immortal Twelfth Legion 

was crowded so closely together 



There was no room for their swords ? 

Why, he seized a shield from a 

soldier. 
Put himself straight at the head of 

his troops, and commanded the 

captains. 
Calling on each by his name, to order 

forward the ensigns ; 
Then to widen the ranks, and give 

more room for their weapons ; 
So he won the day, the battle of 

something-or-other. 
That 's what I always say ; if you 

wish a thing to be well done. 
You must do it yourself, you must 

not leave it to others ! " 



All was silent again ; the Captain 

continued his reading. 
Nothing was heard in the room but 

the hurrying pen of the stripling 
Writing epistles important to go 

next day by the May Flower, 
Filled with the name and the fame 

of the Puritan maiden Priscilla ; 
Every sentence began or closed with 

the name of Priscilla, 
Till the treacherous pen, to which he 

confided the secret. 
Strove to betray it by singing and 

shouting the name of Priscilla! 
Finally closing his book, with a bang 

of the ponderous cover. 
Sudden and loud as the sound of a 

soldier grounding his musket. 
Thus to the young man spake Miles 

Standish the Captain of Plym- 
outh : 
"When you have finished your work, 

I have something important to 

tell you. 
Be not however in haste ; I can wait ; 

I shall not be impatient ! " 
Straightway Alden replied, as he 

folded the last of his letters. 
Pushing his papers aside, and giving 

respectful attention : 
" Speak ; for whenever you speak, I 

am always ready to listen, 



THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 



333 



Always ready to hear whatever per- 
tains to Miles Standish." 
Thereupon answered the Captain, em- 
barrassed, and culling his phrases : 
" 'T is not good for a man to be 

alone, say the Scriptures. 
This I have said before, and again 

and again I repeat it ; 
Every hour in the day, I think it, and 

feel it, and say it. 
Since Rose Standish died, my life 

has been weary and dreary ; 
Sick at heart have I been, beyond 

the healing of friendship. 
Oft in my lonely hours have I thought 

of the maiden Priscilla. 
She is alone in the world ; her father 

and mother and brother 
Died in the winter together; I saw 

her going and coming, 
Now to the grave of the dead, and 

now to the bed of the dying. 
Patient, courageous, and strong, and 

said to myself, that if ever 
There were angels on earth, as there 

are angels in heaven, 
Two have I seen and known ; and the 

angel whose name is Priscilla 
Holds in my desolate life the place 

which the other abandoned. 
Long have I cherished the thought, 

but never have dared to reveal it, 
Being a coward in this, though valiant 

enough for the most part. 
Go to the damsel Priscilla, the love- 
liest maiden of Plymouth, 
Say that a blunt old Captain, a man 

not of words but of actions. 
Offers his hand and his heart, the 

hand and heart of a soldier. 
Not in these words, you know, but 

this in short is my meaning ; 
I am a maker of war, and not a maker 

of phrases. 
You, who are bred as a scholar, can 

say it in elegant language. 
Such as you read in your books of the 

pleadings and wooings of lovers. 
Such as you think best adapted to 

win the heart of a maiden." 



When he had spoken, John Alden, 
the fair-haired taciturn stripling, 

All aghast at his words, surprised, 
embarrassed, bewildered, 

Trying to mask his dismay by treat- 
ing the subject with lightness, 

Trying to smile, and yet feeling his 
heart stand still in his bosom, 

Just as a timepiece stops in a house 
that is stricken by lightning, 

Thus made answer and spake, or 
rather stammered than answered : 

" Such a message as that I am sure I 
should mangle and mar it ; 

If you would have it well done, — I 
am only repeating your maxim, — 

You must do it yourself, you must not 
leave it to others ! " 

But with the air of a man whom noth- 
ing can turn from his purpose. 

Gravely shaking his head, made an- 
swer the Captain of Plymouth : 

" Truly the maxim is good, and I do 
not mean to gainsay it ; 

But we must use it discreetly, and not 
waste powder for nothing. 

Now, as I said before, I Vv^as never a 
maker of phrases. 

I can march up to a fortress and sum- 
mon the place to surrender. 

But march up to a woman with such 
a proposal, I dare not. 

Pm not afraid of bullets, nor shot 
from the mouth of a cannon, 

But of a thundering ' No ! ' point- 
blank from the mouth of a 
woman. 

That I confess Pm afraid of, nor am I 
ashamed to confess it ! 

So you must grant my request, for 
you are an elegant scholar. 

Having the graces of speech, and skill 
in the turning of phrases." 

Taking the hand of his friend, who 
still was reluctant and doubtful, 

Holding it long in his own, and press- 
ing it kindly, he added : 

"Though I have spoken thus lightly, 
yet deep is the feeling that 
prompts me ; 



334 



THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 



Surely you cannot refuse what I ask 
in the name of our friendship ! " 

Then made answer John Alden : 
'• The name of friendship is 
sacred ; 

What you demand in that name, I 
have not the power to deny 
you ! " 

So the strong will prevailed, subdu- 
ing and moulding the gentler, 

Friendship prevailed over love, and 
Alden went on his errand. 



III. 

THE lover's errand. 

So the strong will prevailed, and 
Alden went on his errand, 

Out of the street of the village, and 
into the paths of the forest. 

Into the tranquil woods, where blue- 
birds and robins were building 

Towns in the populous trees, with 
hanging gardens of verdure, 

Peaceful, aerial cities of joy and affec- 
tion and freedom. 

All around him was calm, but within 
him commotion and conflict. 

Love contending with friendship, and 
self with each generous impulse. 

To and fro in his breast his thoughts 
WTre heaving and dashing. 

As in a foundering ship, with every 
roll of the vessel. 

Washes the bitter sea, the merciless 
surge of the ocean ! 

*'■ Must I relinquish it all," he cried 
with a wild lamentation, 

" Must I relinquish it all, the joy, the 
hope, the illusion ? 

Was it for this I have loved, and 
waited, and worshipped in si- 
lence ? 

Was it for this I have followed the 
flying feet and the shadow 

Over the wintry sea, to the desolate 
shores of New England ? 

Truly the heart is deceitful, and out 
of its depths of corruption 



Rise, like an exhalation, the misty 

phantoms of passion ; 
Angels of light they seem, but are 

only delusions of Satan. 
All is clear to me now ; I feel it, I see 

it distinctly ! 
This is the hand of the Lord ; it is 

laid upon me in anger, 
For I have followed too much the 

hearfs desires and devices. 
Worshipping Astaroth bhndly, and 

impious idols of Baal. 
This is the cross I must bear; the 

sin and the swift retribution." 

So through the Plymouth woods 
John Alden went on his errand ; 

Crossing the brook at the ford, where 
it brawled over pebble and shal- 
low. 

Gathering still, as he went, the May- 
flowers blooming around him, 

Fragrant, filling the air with a strange 
and wonderful sweetness. 

Children lost in the woods, and cov- 
ered with leaves in their slumber. 

"Puritan flowers," he said, "and the 
type of Puritan maidens. 

Modest and simple and sweet, the 
very type of Priscilla ! 

So I will take them to her ; to Pris- 
cilla the May-flower of Plymouth, 

Modest and simple and sweet, as a 
parting gift will I take them ; 

Breathing their silent farewells, as 
they fade and wither and perish, 

Soon, to be thrown away as is the 
heart of the giver." 

So through the Plymouth woods John 
Alden went on his errand ; 

Came to an open space, and saw the 
disk of the ocean, 

Sailless, sombre and cold with the com- 
fortless breath of the east-wind ; 

Saw the new-built house, and people 
at work in a meadow ; 

Heard, as he drew near the door, the 
musical voice of Priscilla 

Singing the hundredth Psalm, the 
grand old Puritan anthem, 



THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 



335 



Music that Luther sang to the sacred 
words of the Psalmist, 

Full of the breath of the Lord, con- 
soling and comforting many. 

Then, as he opened the door, he be- 
held the form of the maiden 

Seated beside her wheel, and the 
carded wool like a snow-drift 

Piled at her knee, her white hands 
feeding the ravenous spindle, 

While with her foot on the treadle 
she guided the wheel in its motion. 

Open wide on her lap lay the well- 
worn psalm-book of Ainsworth, 

Printed in Amsterdam, the words and 
the music together, 

Rough-hewn, angular notes, like 
stones in the wail of a church- 
yard. 

Darkened and overhung by the run- 
ning vine of the verses. 

Such was the book from whose pages 
she sang the old Puritan anthem, 

She, the Puritan girl, in the solitude 
of the forest, 

Making the humble house and the 
modest apparel of home-spun 

Beautiful with her beauty, and rich 
with the wealth of her being ! 

Over him rushed, like a wind that is 
keen and cold and relentless. 

Thoughts of what might have been, 
and the weight and woe of his 
errand ; 

All the dreams that had faded, and all 
the hopes that had vanished, 

Ail his hfe henceforth a dreary and 
tenantless mansion. 

Haunted by vain regrets, and pallid, 
sorrowful faces. 

Still he said to himself, and almost 
fiercely he said it, 

" Let not him that putteth his hand to 
the plough look backwards ; 

Though the ploughshare cut through 
the flowers of life to its fountains, 

Though it pass o'er the graves of the 
dead and the hearts of the living, 

It is the will of the Lord ; and his 
mercy endureth forever ! " 



So he entered the house : and the 

hum of the wheel and the sing- 
ing 
Suddenly ceased ; for Priscilla, aroused 

by his step on the threshold, 
Rose as he entered, and gave him her 

hand, in signal of welcome, 
Saying, " 1 knew it was you, when I 

heard your step in the passage ; 
For I was thinking of you, as 1 sat 

there singing and spinning." 
Awkward and dumb with delight, that 

a thought of him had been min- 
gled 
Thus in the sacred psalm, that came 

from the heart of the maiden, 
Silent before her he stood, and gave 

her the flowers for an answer. 
Finding no words for his thought. 

He remembered that day in the 

winter. 
After the first great snow, when he 

broke a path from the village, 
Reeling and plunging along through 

the drifts that encumbered the 

doorway. 
Stamping the snow from his feet as he 

entered the house, and Priscilla 
Laughed at his snowy locks, and gave 

him a seat by the fireside. 
Grateful and pleased to know he had 

thought of her in the snow-storm. 
Had he but spoken then ! perhaps not 

in vain had he spoken ; 
Now it was all too late ; the golden 

moment had vanished ! 
So he stood there abashed, and gave 

her the flowers for an answer. 

Then they sat down and talked of 
the birds and the beautiful Spring- 
time, 

Talked of their friends at home, and 
the May Flower that sailed on the 
morrow. 

" I have been thinking all day," said 
gently the Puritan maiden, 

" Dreaming all night, and thinking all 
day, of the hedge-rows of Eng- 
land, — 



336 



THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 



They are in blossom now, and the 

country is all like a garden ; 
Thinking of lanes and fields, and the 

song of the lark and the linnet, 
Seeing the village street, and familiar 

faces of neighbors 
Going about as of old, and stopping 

to gossip together. 
And, at the end of the street, the vil- 
lage church, with the ivy 
Climbing the old gray tower, and the 

quiet graves in the churchyard. 
Kind are the people I live with, and 

dear to me my religion ; 
Still my heart is so sad, that I wish 

myself back in Old England. 
You will say it is wrong, but I cannot 

help it : I almost 
Wish myself back in Old England, I 

feel so lonely and wretched." 

Thereupon answered the youth : — 
" Indeed I do not condemn you ; 

Stouter hearts than a woman's have 
quailed in this terrible winter. 

Yours is tender and trusting, and needs 
a stronger to lean on ; 

So I have come to you now, with an 
offer and proffer of marriage 

Made by a good man and true, Miles 
Standish the Captain of Plym- 
outh ! " 

Thus he delivered his message, the 
dexterous writer of letters, — 

Did not embellish the theme, nor 
array it in beautiful phrases. 

But came straight to the point, and 
blurted it out like a schoolboy ; 

Even the Captain himself could hardly 
have said it more bluntly. 

Mute with amazement and sorrow, 
Priscilla the Puritan maiden 

Looked into Alden's face, her eyes 
dilated with wonder. 

Feeling his words like a blow, that 
stunned her and rendered her 
speechless ; 

Till at length she exclaimed, inter- 
rupting the ominous silence : 



'^ If the great Captain of Plymouth is 

so very eager to wed me, 
Why does he not come himself, and 

take the trouble to woo me ? 
If I am not worth the wooing, I surely 

am not worth the winning !" 
Then John Alden began explaining 

and smoothing the matter, 
Making it worse as he went, by saying 

the Captain was busy, — 
Had no time for such things ; — such 

things ! the words grating harshly 
Fell on the ear of Priscilla ; and swijft 

as a flash she made answer : 
" Has he no time for such things, as 

you call it, before he is married, 
Would he be likely to find it, or make 

it, after the wedding ? 
That is the way with you men ; you 

don't understand us, you cannot. 
When you have made up your minds, 

after thinking of this one and that 

one. 
Choosing, selecting, rejecting, com- 
paring one with another. 
Then you make known your desire, 

with abrupt and sudden avowal, 
And are offended and hurt, and indig- 
nant perhaps, that a woman 
Does not respond at once to a love 

that she never suspected. 
Does not attain at abound the height 

to which you have been climb- 
ing. 
This is not right nor just : for surely 

a woman's affection 
Is not a thing to be asked for, and had 

for only the asking. 
When one is truly in love, one not 

only says it, but shows it 
Had he but waited awhile, had he only 

showed that he loved me. 
Even this Captain of yours — who 

knows ? — at last might have won 

me, 
Old and rough as he is ; but now it 

never can happen." 

Still John Alden went on, unheed- 
ing the words of Priscilla, 



THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 



337 



Urging the suit of his friend, explain- 
ing, persuading, expanding ; 

Spoke of his courage and skill, and of 
all his battles in Flanders, 

How with the people of God he had 
chosen to suffer affliction, 

How, in return for his zeal, they had 
made him Captain of Plymouth ; 

He was a gentleman born, could trace 
his pedigree plainly 

Back to Hugh Standish of Duxbury 
Hall, in Lancashire, England, 

Who was the son of Ralph, and the 
grandson of Thurston de Stan- 
dish ; 

Heir unto vast estates, of which he 
was basely defrauded, 

Still bore the family arms, and had 
for his crest a cock argent 

Combed and wattled gules, and all 
the rest of the blazon. 

He was a man of honor, of noble and 
generous nature ; 

Though he was rough, he was kindly ; 
she knew how during the winter 

He had attended the sick, with a hand 
as gentle as woman^s ; 

Somewhat hasty and hot, he could 
not deny it, and headstrong, 

Stern as a soldier might be, but hearty, 
and placable always, 

Not to be laughed at and scorned, 
because he was little of stature ; 

For he was great of heart, magnani- 
mous, courtly, courageous ; 

Any woman in Plymouth, nay any 
woman in England, 

Might be happy and proud to be 
called the wife of Miles Stan- 
dish ! 

But as he warmed and glowed, in 

his simple and eloquent language. 
Quite forgetful of self, and full of the 

praise of his rival, 
Archly the maiden smiled, and, with 

eyes overrunning with laughter. 
Said, in a tremulous voice, " Why 

don't you speak for yourself, 

John?" 



IV. 

JOHN ALDEN. 

Into the open air John Alden, per- 
plexed and bewildered. 

Rushed like a man insane, and wan- 
dered alone by the sea-side ; 

Paced up and down the sands, and 
bared his head to the east-wind. 

Cooling his heated brow, and the fire 
and fever within him. 

Slowly as out of the heavens, with 
apocalyptical splendors. 

Sank the City of God, in the vision of 
John the Apostle, 

So, with its cloudy walls of chr3^solite, 
jasper, and sapphire, 

Sank the broad red sun, and over its 
turrets uplifted 

Glimmered the golden reed of the 
angel who measured the city, 

"Welcome, O wind of the East !"he 
exclaimed in his wild exultation, 

" Welcome, O wind of the East, from 
the caves of the misty Atlantic ! 

Blowing o'er fields of dulse, and meas- 
ureless meadows of sea-grass. 

Blowing o'er rocky wastes, and the 
grottos and gardens of ocean ! 

Lay thy cold, moist hand on my 
burning forehead, and wrap me 

Close in thy garments of mist, to 
allay the fever within me ! " 

Like an awakened conscience, the 
sea was moaning and tossing. 

Beating remorseful and loud the 
mutable sands of the sea-shore. 

Fierce in his soul was the struggle and 
tumult of passions contending ; 

Love triumphant and crowned, and 
friendship wounded and bleeding. 

Passionate cries of desire, and im- 
portunate pleadings of duty ! 

" Is it my fault," he said, '' that the 
maiden has chosen between us ? 

Is it my fault that he failed. — my 
fault that I am the victor ? " 



338 



THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 



Then within him there thundered a 
voice, like the voice of the 
Prophet : 

" It hath displeased the Lord ! " — and 
he thought of David's transgres- 
sion, 

Bathsheba's beautiful face, and his 
friend in the front of the battle ! 

Shame and confusion of guilt, and 
abasement and self-condemna- 
tion. 

Overwhelmed him at once ; and he 
cried in the deepest contrition : 

" It hath displeased the Lord ! It is 
the temptation of Satan ! " 

Then, uplifting his head, he looked 

at the sea, and beheld there 
Dimly the shadowy form of the May 

Flower riding at anchor. 
Rocked on the rising tide, and ready 

to sail on the morrow ; 
Heard the voices of men through the 

mist, the rattle of cordage 
Thrown on the deck, the shouts of 

the mate, and the sailors' " Ay, 

ay, Sir ! " ^ 
Clear and distinct, but not loud, in 

the dripping air of the twilight. 
Still for a moment he stood, and 

listened, and stared at the vessel. 
Then went hurriedly on, as one who, 

seeing a phantom. 
Stops, then quickens his pace, and 

follows the beckoning shadow. 
" Yes, it is plain to me now," he 

murmured ; " the hand of the 

Lord is 
Leading me out of the land of dark- 
ness, the bondage of error, 
Through the sea, that shall lift the 

walls of its waters around me, 
Hiding me, cutting me off, from the 

cruel thoughts that pursue me. 
Back will I go o"'er the ocean, this 

dreary land will abandon, 
Her whom I may not love, and him 

whom my heart has offended. 
Better to be in my grave in the green 

old churchyard in England, 



Close by my mother's side, and among 
the dust of my kindred ; 

Better be dead and forgotten, than 
living in shame and dishonor ! 

Sacred and safe and unseen, in the 
dark of the narrow chamber 

With me my secret shall lie, like a 
buried jewel that glimmers 

Bright on the hand that is dust, in 
the chambers of silence and dark- 
ness, — 

Yes, as the marriage ring of the great 
espousal hereafter ! " 

Thus as he spake, he turned, in the 

strength of his strong resolution, 
Leaving behind him the shore, and 

hurried along in the twilight. 
Through the congenial gloom of the 

forest silent and sombre. 
Till he beheld the lights in the seven 

houses of Plymouth, 
Shining like seven stars in the dusk 

and mist of the evening. 
Soon he entered his door, and found 

the redoubtable Captain 
Sitting alone, and absorbed in the 

martial pages of Caesar, 
Fighting some great campaign in 

Hainault or Brabant or Flanders. 
'• Long have you been on your errand," 

he said with a cheery demeanor, 
Even as one who is waiting an answer, 

and fears not the issue. 
"Not far off is the house, although 

the woods are between us ; 
But you have lingered so long, that 

while you were going and com- 
ing 
I have fought ten battles and sacked 

and demolished a city. 
Come, sit down, and in order relate 

to me all that has happened." 

Then John Alden spake, and related 
the wondrous adventure. 

From beginning to end, minutely, just 
as it happened ; 

How he had seen Priscilla, and how 
he had sped in his courtship, 



THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 



339 



Only smoothing a little, and softening 

down her refusal. 
But when he came at length to the 

words Priscilla had spoken, 
Words so tender and cruel : " Why 

don't you speak for yourself, 

John ? " 
Up leaped the Captain of Plymouth, 

and stamped on the floor, till his 

armor 
Clanged on the wall, where it hung, 

with a sound of sinister omen. 
All his pent-up wrath burst forth in a 

sudden explosion, 
Even as a hand-grenade, that scatters 

destruction around it. 
Wildly he shouted, and loud : "John 

Alden ! you have betrayed me ! 
Me, Miles Standish, your friend ! have 

supplanted, defrauded, betrayed 

me ! 
One of my ancestors ran his sword 

through the heart of Wat Tyler ; 
Who shall prevent me from running 

my own through the heart of a 

traitor ? 
Yours is the greater treason, for yours 

is a treason to friendship ! 
You, who lived under my roof, whom I 

cherished and loved as a brother ; 
You, who have fed at my board, and 

drunk at my cup, to whose keep- 
ing 
I have intrusted my honor, my 

thoughts the most sacred and 

secret, — 
You too, Brutus ! ah woe to the name 

of friendship hereafter ! 
Brutus was Caesar's friend, and you 

were mine, but henceforward 
Let there be nothing between us save 

war, and implacable hatred I " 

So spake the Captain of Plymouth, 

and strode about in the chamber. 
Chafing and choking with rage ; like 

cords were the veins on his 

temples. 
But in the midst of his anger a man 

appeared at the doorway, 



Bringing in uttermost haste a mes- 
sage of urgent importance. 
Rumors of danger and war and hostile 

incursions of Indians ! 
Straightway the Captain paused, and, 

without further C[uestion or parley. 
Took from the nail on the wall his 

sword with its scabbard of iron. 
Buckled the belt round his waist, and, 

frowning fiercely, departed. 
Alden was left alone. He heard the 

clank of the scabbard 
Growing fainter and fainter, and dying 

away in the distance. 
Then he arose from his seat, and 

looked forth into the darkness, 
Felt the cool air blow on his cheek, 

that was hot with the insult. 
Lifted his eyes to the heavens, and, 

folding his hands as in childhood, 
Prayed in the silence of night to the 

Father who seeth in secret. 

Meanwhile the choleric Captain 
strode wrathful away to the coun- 
cil, ^ 

Found it already assembled, impa- 
tiently waiting his coming; 

Men in the middle of life, austere and 
grave in deportment. 

Only one of them old, the hill that 
was nearest to heaven, 

Covered with snow, but erect, the 
excellent Elder of Plymouth. 

God had sifted three kingdoms to 
find the wheat for this planting, 

Then had sifted the wheat, as the 
living seed of a nation ; 

So say the chronicles old, and such 
is the faith of the people! 

Near them was standing an Indian, 
in attitude stern and defiant. 

Naked down to the waist, and grim 
and ferocious in aspect ; 

While on the table before them was 
lying unopened a Bible, 

Ponderous, bound in leather, brass- 
studded, printed in Holland, 

And beside it outstretched the skin 
of a rattlesnake glittered, 



340 



THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 



Filled, like a quiver, with arrows ; a 

signal and challenge of warfare, 
Brought by the Indian, and speaking 

with arrowy tongues of defiance. 
This Miles Standish beheld, as he 

entered, and heard them debating 
What were an answer befitting the 

hostile message and menace, 
Talking of this and of that, contriv- 
ing, suggesting, objecting ; 
One voice only for peace, and that 

the voice of the Elder, 
Judging it wise and well that some 

at least were converted. 
Rather than any were slain, for this 

was but Christian behavior ! 
Then outspake Miles Standish, the 

stalwart Captain of Plymouth, 
Muttering deep in his throat, for his 

voice was husky with anger : 
" What ! do you mean to make war 

with milk and the water of roses ? 
Is it to shoot red squirrels you have 

your howitzer planted 
There on the roof of the church, or 

is it to shoot red devils ? 
Truly the only tongue that is under- 
stood by a savage 
Must be the tongue of fire that 

speaks from the mouth of the 

cannon ! " 
Thereupon answered and said the 

excellent Elder of Plymouth, 
Somewhat amazed and alarmed at 

this irreverent language : 
" Not so thought Saint Paul, nor yet 

the other Apostles ; 
Not from the cannon's mouth were 

the tongues of fire they spake 

with ! " 
But unheeded fell this mild rebuke 

on the Captain, 
Who had advanced to the table, and 

thus continued discoursing : 
" Leave this matter to me, for to me 

by right it pertaineth. 
War is a terrible trade ; but in the 

cause that is righteous. 
Sweet is the smell of powder; and 

thus I answer the challenge ! " 



Then from the rattlesnake's skin, 
with a sudden, contemptuous 
gesture, 

Jerking the Indian arrows, he filled 
it with powder and bullets 

Full to the very jaws, and handed it 
back to the savage, 

Saying, in thundering tones; "Here, 
take it ! this is your answer ! " 

Silently out of the room then gHded 
the ghstening savage. 

Bearing the serpent's skin, and seem- 
ing himself like a serpent. 

Winding his sinuous way in the dark 
to the depths of the forest. 



V. 

THE SAILING OF THE MAY FLOWER. 

Just in the gray of the dawn, as the 
mists uprose from the meadows, 

There was a stir and a sound in the 
slumbering village of Plymouth ; 

Clanging and clicking of arms, and 
the order imperative, " For- 
ward ! " 

Given in tone suppressed, a tramp of 
feet, and then silence. 

Figures ten, in the mist, marched 
slowly out of the village. 

Standish the stalwart it was, with 
eight of his valorous army, 

Led by their Indian guide, by Hobo- 
mok, friend of the white men. 

Northward marching to quell the sud- 
den revolt of the savage. 

Giants they seemed in the mist, or 
the mighty men of King David ; 

Giants in heart they were, who be- 
lieved in God and the Bible, — 

Ay, who believed in the smiting of 
Midianites and Philistines. 

Over them gleamed far off the crim- 
son banners of morning ; 

Under them loud on the sands, the 
serried billows, advancing. 

Fired along the line, and in regular 
order retreated. 



THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 



341 



Many a mile had they marched, when 
at length the village of Plymouth 

Woke from its sleep, and arose, in- 
tent on its manifold labors. 

Sweet was the air and soft ; and 
slowly the smoke from the chim- 
neys 

Rose over roofs of thatch, and pointed 
steadily eastward ; 

Men came forth from the doors, and 
paused and talked of the weather, 

Said that the wind had changed, and 
was blowing fair for the May 
Flower ; 

Talked of their Captain's departure, 
and all the dangers that menaced. 

He being gone, the town, and what 
should be done in his absence. 

Merrily sang the birds, and the ten- 
der voices of women 

Consecrated with hymns the common 
cares of the household. 

Out of the sea rose the sun, and the 
billows rejoiced at his coming ; 

Beautiful were his feet on the purple 
tops of the mountains ; 

Beautiful on the sails of the May 
Flower riding at anchor. 

Battered and blackened and worn by 
all the storms of the winter. 

Loosely against her masts was hang- 
ing and flapping her canvas, 

Rent by so many gales, and patched 
by the hands of the sailors. 

Suddenly from her side, as the sun 
rose over the ocean, 

Darted a puff of smoke, and floated 
seaward ; anon rang 

Loud over field and forest the can- 
non's roar, and the echoes 

Heard and repeated the sound, the 
signal-gun of departure ! 

Ah ! but with louder echoes replied 
the hearts of the people ! 

Meekly, in voices subdued, the chap- 
ter was read from the Bible, 

Meekly the prayer was begun, but 
ended in fervent entreaty ! 

Then from their houses in haste came 
forth the Pilgrims of Plymouth, 



Men and women and children, all 
hurrying down to the sea-shore, 

Eager, with tearful eyes, to say fare- 
well to the May Flower, 

Homeward bound o'er the sea, and 
leaving them here in the desert. 

Foremost among them was Alden. 

All night he had lain without 

slumber, 
Turning and tossing about in the 

heat and unrest of his fever. 
He had beheld Miles Standish, who 

came back late from the council, 
Stalking into the room, and heard 

him mutter and murmur. 
Sometimes it seemed a prayer, and 

sometimes it sounded hke swear- 
ing. 
Once he had come to the bed, and 

stood there a moment in silence ; 
Then he had turned away, and said : 

"I will not awake him; 
Let him sleep on, it is best ; for what 

is the use of more talking ! " 
Then he extinguished the light, and 

threw himself down on his pallet. 
Dressed as he was, and ready to start 

at the break of the morning, — 
Covered himself with the cloak he 

had worn in his campaigns in 

Flanders, — 
Slept as a soldier sleeps in his bivouac, 

ready for action. 
But with the dawn he arose ; in the 

twilight Alden beheld him 
Put on his corselet of steel, and all the 

rest of his armor, 
Buckle about his waist his trusty blade 

of Damascus, 
Take from the corner his musket, and 

so stride out of the chamber. 
Often the heart of the youth had 

burned and yearned to embrace 

him. 
Often his lips had essayed to speak, 

imploring for pardon. 
All the old friendship came back, 

with its tender and grateful emo- 
tions ; 



342 



THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 



But his pride overmastered the noble 
nature within him, — 

Pride, and the sense of his wrong, 
and the burning fire of the in- 
sult. 

So he beheld his friend departing in 
anger, but spake not, 

Saw him go forth to danger, perhaps 
to death, and he spake not ! 

Then he arose from his bed, and 
heard what the people were say- 
ing, 

Joined in the talk at the door, with 
Stephen and Richard and Gil- 
bert, 

Joined in the morning prayer, and in 
the reading of Scripture, 

And, with the others, in haste went 
hurrying down to the sea-shore, 

Down to the Plymouth Rock, that 
had been to their feet as a door- 
step 

Into a world unknown, — the corner- 
stone of a nation ! 

There with his boat was the Master, 

already a little impatient 
Lest he should lose the tide, or the 

wind might shift to the eastward, 
Square-built, hearty, and strong, with 

an odor of ocean about him. 
Speaking with this one and that, and 

cramming letters and parcels 
Into his pockets capacious, and mes- 
sages mingled together 
Into his narrow brain, till at last he 

was wholly bewildered. 
Nearer the boat stood Alden, with 

one foot placed on the gunwale. 
One still firm on the rock, and talking 

at times with the sailors, 
Seated erect on the thwarts, all ready 

and eager for starting. 
He too was eager to go, and thus put 

an end to his anguish, 
Thinking to fly from despair, that 

swifter than keel is or canvas, 
Thinking to drown in the sea the 

ghost that would rise and pursue 



But as he gazed on the crowd, he be- 
held the form of Priscilla 

Standing dejected among them, un- 
conscious of all that was pass- 
ing- 

Fixed were her eyes upon his, as 
if she divined his intention. 

Fixed with a look so sad, so reproach- 
ful, imploring, and patient, 

That with a sudden revulsion his heart 
recoiled from its purpose, 

As from the verge of a crag, where 
one step more is destruction. 

Strange is the heart of man, with its 
quick, mysterious instincts ! 

Strange is the life of man, and fatal or 
fated are moments, 

Whereupon turn, as on hinges, the 
gates of the wall adamantine ! 

" Here I remain ! " he exclaimed, as 
he looked at the heavens above 
him. 

Thanking the Lord whose breath had 
scattered the mist and the mad- 
ness. 

Wherein, blind and lost, to death he 
was staggering headlong. 

" Yonder snow-white cloud, that floats 
in the ether above me, 

Seems like a hand that is pointing 
and beckoning over the ocean. 

There is another hand, that is not so 
spectral and ghost-like. 

Holding me, drawing me back, and 
clasping mine for protection. 

Float, O hand of cloud, and vanish 
away in the ether ! 

Roll thyself up like a fist, to threaten 
and daunt me ; I heed not 

Either your warning or menace, or 
any omen of evil ! 

There is no land so sacred, no air so 
pure and so wholesome. 

As is the air she breathes, and the 
soil that is pressed by her foot- 
steps. 

Here for her sake will I stay, and like 
an invisible presence 

Hover around her forever, protecting, 
supporting her weakness ; 



THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 



343 



Yes ! as my foot was the first that 
stepped on this rock at the land- 
ing, 

So, with the blessing of God, shall it 
be the last at the leaving ! " 

Meanwhile the Master alert, but 

with dignified air and important, 
Scanning with watchful eye the tide 

and the wind and the weather. 
Walked about on the sands ; and the 

people crowded around him 
Saying a few last words, and enforcing 

his careful remembrance. 
Then, taking each by the hand, as if 

he were grasping a tiller, 
Into the boat he sprang, and in haste 

shoved off to his vessel. 
Glad in his heart to get rid of all this 

worry and flurry. 
Glad to be gone from a land of sand 

and sickness and sorrow, 
Short allowance of victual, and plenty 

of nothing but Gospel ! 
Lost in the sound of the oars was the 

last farewell of the Pilgrims. 
O strong hearts and true ! not one 

went back in the May Flower ! 
No, not one looked back, who had set 

his hand to this ploughing ! 

Soon were heard on board the 
shouts and songs of the sailors 

Heaving the windlass round, and hoist- 
ing the ponderous anchor. 

Then the yards were braced, and all 
sails set to the west-wind, 

Blowing steady and strong ; and the 
May Flowersailedfrom theharbor. 

Rounded the point of the Gurnetj and 
leaving far to the southward 

Island and cape of sand, and the Field 
of the First Encounter, 

Took the wind on her quarter, and 
stood for the open Atlantic, 

Borne on the send of the sea, and the 
swelling hearts of the Pilgrims. 

Long in silence they watched the 
receding sail of the vessel, 



Much endeared to them all, as some- 
thing living and human ; 

Then, as if filled with the spirit, and 
wrapt in a vision prophetic, 

Baring his hoary head, the excellent 
Elder of Plymouth 

Said, " Let us pray ! " and they prayed, 
and thanked the Lord and took 
courage. 

Mournfully sobbed the waves at the 
base of the rock, and above them 

Bowed and whispered the wheat on 
the hill of death, and their kin- 
dred 

Seemed to awake in their graves, and 
to join in the prayer that they 
uttered. 

Sun-illumined and white, on the east- 
ern verge of the ocean 

Gleamed the departing sail, like a 
marble slab in a graveyard ; 

Buried beneath it lay forever all hope 
of escaping. 

Lo ! as they turned to depart, they 
saw the form of an Indian, 

Watching them from the hill ; but 
while they spake with each other, 

Pointing with outstretched hands, and 
saying, " Look ! " he had van- 
ished. 

So they returned to their homes ; but 
Alden lingered a little, 

Musing alone on the shore, and watch- 
ing the wash of the billows 

Round the base of the rock, and the 
sparkle and flash of the sun- 
shine, 

Like the spirit of God, moving visibly 
over the waters. 

VI. 

PRISCILLA. 

Thus for a while he stood, and mused 
by the shore of the ocean, 

Thinking of many things, and most 
of all of Priscilla ; 

And as if thought had the power to 
draw to itself, like the loadstone, 



344 



THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 



Whatsoever it touches, by subtile 

laws of its nature, 
Lo ! as he turned to depart, Priscilla 

was standing beside him. 

" Are you so much offended, you 

will not speak to me ?" said she. 
" Am I so much to blame, that yester- 
day, when you were pleading 
Warmly the cause of another, my 

heart, impulsive and wayward. 
Pleaded your own, and spake out, 

forgetful perhaps of decorum ? 
Certainly you can forgive me for 

speaking so frankly, for saying 
What I ought not to have said, yet 

now 1 can never unsay it ; 
For there are moments in life, when 

the heart is so full of emotion. 
That if by chance it be shaken, or into 

its depths like a pebble 
Drops some careless word, it over- 

ilows, and its secret, 
Spilt on the ground like water, can 

never be gathered together. 
Yesterday I was shocked, when I heard 

you speak of Miles Standish, 
Praising his virtues, transforming his 

very defects into virtues. 
Praising his courage and strength, and 

even his fighting in Flanders, 
As if by fighting alone you could win 

the heart of a woman. 
Quite overlooking yourself and the 

rest, in exalting your hero. 
Therefore I spake as I did, by an 

irresistible impulse. 
You will forgive me, I hope, for the 

sake of the friendship between us, 
Which is too true and too sacred to 

be so easily broken ! " 
Thereupon answered John Alden, 

the scholar, the friend of Miles 

Standish : 
" I was not angry with you, with my- 
self alone I was angry, 
Seeing how badly I managed the 

matter I had in my keeping." 
" No ! " interrupted the maiden, with 

answer prompt and decisive ; 



"No; you are angry with me, for 

speaking so frankly and freely. 
It was wrong, I acknowledge; for it 

is the fate of a woman 
Long to be patient and silent, to wait 

like a ghost that is speechless. 
Till some questioning voice dissolves 

the spell of its silence. 
Hence is the inner life of so many 

suffering women 
Sunless and silent and deep, like sub- 
terranean rivers 
Running through caverns of darkness, 

unheard, unseen, and unfmitful. 
Chafing their channels of stone, with 

endless and profitless murmurs." 
Thereupon answered John Alden, the 

young man, the lover of women : 
" Heaven forbid it, Priscilla ; and truly 

they seem to me always 
More like the beautiful rivers that 

watered the garden of Eden, 
More like the river Euphrates, through 

deserts of Havilah flowing. 
Filling the land with delight, and 

memories sweet of the garden ! " 
" Ah, by these words, I can see," again 

interrupted the maiden, 
" How very little you prize me, or care 

for what I am saying. 
When from the depths of my heart, in 

pain and with secret misgiving. 
Frankly I speak to you, asking for 

sympathy only and kindness. 
Straightway you take up my words, 

that are plain and direct and in 

earnest, 
Turn them away from their mean- 
ing, and answer with flattering 

phrases. 
This is not right, is not just, is not 

true to the best that is in you ; 
For I know and esteem you, and feel 

that your nature is noble, 
Lifting mine up to a higher, a more 

ethereal level. 
Therefore I value your friendship, and 

feel it perhaps the more keenly 
If you say aught that implies I am 

only as one among many, 



THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 



345 



If you make use of those common 
and complimentary phrases 

Most men think so fine, in deahng 
and speaking with women, 

But which women reject as msipid, if 
not as insulting." 

Mute and amazed was Alden ; and 

listened and looked at Priscilla, 
Thinking he never had seen her more 

fair, more divine in her beauty. 
He who but yesterday pleaded so 

glibly the cause of another, 
Stood there embarrassed and silent, 

and seeking in vain for an answer. 
So the maiden went on, and little 

divined or imagined 
What was at work in his heart, that 

made him so awkward and speech- 
less. 
" Let us, then, be what we are, and 

speak what we think, and in all 

things 
Keep ourselves loyal to truth, and the 

sacred professions of friendship. 
It is no secret 1 tell you, nor am I 

ashamed to declare it : 
I have liked to be with you, to see 

you, to speak with you always. 
So I was hurt at your words, and a 

little affronted to hear you 
Urge me to marry your friend, though 

he were the Captain Miles Stan- 
dish . 
For I must tell you the truth : much 

more to me is your friendship 
Than all the love he could give, were 

he twice the hero you think him." 
Then she extended her hand, and 

Alden, who eagerly grasped it. 
Felt all the wounds in his heart, that 

were aching and bleeding so 

sorely. 
Healed by the touch of that hand, and 

he said, with a voice full of feel- 
ing: 
" Yes, we must ever be friends ; and 

of all who offer you friendship 
Let me be ever the first, the truest, 

the nearest and dearest ! " 



Casting a farewell look at the glim- 
mering sail of the May Flower, 

Distant, but still in sight, and sinking 
below the horizon, 

Homeward together they walked, with 
a strange, indefinite feeling, 

That all the rest had departed and 
left them alone in the desert. 

But, as they went through the fields 
in the blessing and smile of the 
sunshine. 

Lighter grew their hearts, and Pris- 
cilla said very archly : 

" Now that our terrible Captain has 
gone in pursuit of the Indians, 

Where he is happier far than he would 
be commanding a household, 

You may speak boldly, and tell me 
of all that happened between you, 

When you returned last night, and 
said how ungrateful you found 
me." 

Thereupon answered John Alden, and 
told her the whole of the story, — 

Told her his own despair, and the 
direful wrath of Miles Standish. 

Whereat the maiden smiled, and said 
between laughing and earnest, 

" He is a little chimney, and heated 
hot in a moment !" 

But as he gently rebuked her, and 
told her how much he had suf- 
fered, — 

How he had even determined to sail 
that day in the May Flower, 

And had remained for her sake, on 
hearing the dangers that threat- 
ened, — 

All her manner was changed, and she 
said with a faltering accent, 

" Truly I thank you for this : how 
good you have been to me 
always ! " 

Thus, as a pilgrim devout, who 
toward Jerusalem journeys. 

Taking three steps in advance, and 
one reluctantly backward. 

Urged by importunate zeal, and with- 
held by pangs of contrition 5 



346 



THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 



Slowly but steadily onward, receding 
yet ever advancing, 

Journeyed this Puritan youth to the 
Holy Land of his longings, 

Urged by the fervor of love, and with- 
held by remorseful misgivings. 

VII. 

THE MARCH OF MILES STANDISH. 

Meanwhile the stalwart Miles Stan- 
dish was marching steadily north- 
ward. 

Winding through forest and swamp, 
and along the trend of the sea- 
shore, 

All day long, with hardly a halt, the 
fire of his anger 

Burning and crackling within, and the 
sulphurous odor of powder 

Seeming more sweet to his nostrils 
than all the scents of the forest. 

Silent and moody he went, and much 
he revolved his discomfort ; 

He who was used to success, and to 
easy victories always, 

Thus to be flouted, rejected, and 
laughed to scorn by a maiden. 

Thus to be mocked and betrayed by 
the friend whom most he had 
trusted ! 

Ah ! 't was too much to be borne, and 
he fretted and chafed in his 



" I alone am to blame," he muttered, 

" for mine was the folly. 
What has a rough old soldier, grown 

grim and gray in the harness. 
Used to the camp and its ways, to do 

with the wooing of maidens ? 
'T was but a dream, — let it pass, — 

let it vanish like so many others ! 
What I thought was a flower, is only 

a weed, and is worthless ; 
Out of my heart will I pluck it, and 

throw it away, and henceforward 
Be but a fighter of battles, a lover and 

wooer of dangers ! " 



Thus he revolved in his mind his 
sorry defeat and discomfort. 

While he was marching by day or 
lying at night in the forest. 

Looking up at the trees, and the con- 
stellations beyond them. 

After a three days' march he came 
to an Indian encampment 

Pitched on the edge of a meadow, 
between the sea and the forest ; 

Women at work by the tents, and the 
warriors, horrid with war-paint. 

Seated about a fire, and smoking and 
talking together; 

Who, when they saw from afar the sud- 
den approach of the white men. 

Saw the flash of the sun on breast- 
plate and sabre and musket, 

Straightway leaped to their feet, and 
two, from among them advancing. 

Came to parley with Standish, and 
offer him furs as a present ; 

Friendship was in their looks, but in 
their hearts there was hatred. 

Braves of the tribe were these, and 
brothers gigantic in stature, 

Huge as Goliath of Gath, or the ter- 
rible Og, king of Bashan ; 

One was Pecksuot named, and the 
other was called Wattawamat. 

Round their necks were suspended 
their knives in scabbards of 
wampum. 

Two-edged, trenchant knives, with 
points as sharp as a needle. 

Other arms had they none, for they 
were cunning and crafty. 

" Welcome, English ! " they said, — 
these words they had learned 
from the traders 

Touching at times on the coast, to 
barter and chaffer for peltries. 

Then in their native tongue they be- 
gan to parley with Standish, 

Through his guide and interpreter, 
Hobomok, friend of the white 
man. 

Begging for blankets and knives, but 
mostly for muskets and powder, 



THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 



347 



Kept by the white man, they said, 

concealed, with the plague, in 

his cellars, 
Ready to be let loose, and destroy 

his brother the red man ! 
But when Standish refused, and said 

he would give them the Bible, 
Suddenly changing their tone, they 

began to boast and to bluster. 
Then Wattawamat advanced with a 

stride in front of the other, 
And, with a lofty demeanor, thus 

vauntingly spake to the Captain : 
"Now Wattawamat can see, by the 

fiery eyes of the Captain, 
Angry is he in his heart ; but the 
/ heart of the brave Wattawamat 

[ Is not afraid at the sight. He was 

not born of a woman. 
But on a mountain, at night, from an 
\ oak-tree riven by lightning, 
Forth he sprang at a bound, with all 

his weapons about him. 
Shouting, 'Who is there here to fight 

with the brave Wattawamat ? ' " 
Then he unsheathed his knife, and, 

whetting the blade on his left 

hand. 
Held it aloft and displayed a woman's 

face on the handle. 
Saying, with bitter expression and 

look of sinister meaning : 
*• I have another at home, with the 

face of a man on the handle ; 
By and by they shall marry ; and there 

will be plenty of children ! " 

Then stood Pecksuot forth, self- 
vaunting, insulting Miles Stan- 
dish : 

While with his fingers he patted the 
knife that hung at his bosom. 

Drawing it half from its sheath, and 
plunging it back, as he muttered : 

" By and by it shall see ; it shall eat ; 
ah, ha ! but shall speak not ! 

This is the mighty Captain the white 
men have sent to destroy us ! 

He is a little man ; let him go and 
work with the women ! " 



Meanwhile Standish had noted the 
faces and figures of Indians 

Peeping and creeping about from 
bush to tree in the forest. 

Feigning to look for game, with 
arrows set on their bow-strings, 

Drawing about him still closer and 
closer the net of their ambush. 

But undaunted he stood, and dissem- 
bled and treated them smoothly ; 

So the old chronicles say, that were 
writ in the days of the fathers. 

But when he heard their defiance, 
the boast, the taunt, and the 
insult. 

All the hot blood of his race, of Sir 
Hugh and of Thurston de Stan- 
dish, 

Boiled and beat in his heart, and 
swelled in the veins of his tem- 
ples. 

Headlong he leaped on the boaster, 
and, snatching his knife from its 
scabbard. 

Plunged it into his heart, and, reeling 
backward, the savage 

Fell with his face to the sky, and a 
fiendlike fierceness upon it. 

Straight there arose from the forest 
the awful sound of the war-whoop, 

And, like a flurry of snow on the 
whistling wind of December, 

Swift and sudden and keen came a 
flight of feathery arrows. 

Then came a cloud of smoke, and 
out of the cloud came the light- 
ning. 

Out of the lightning thunder ; and 
death unseen ran before it. 

Frightened, the savages fled for shel- 
ter in swamp and in thicket. 

Hotly pursued and beset ; but their 
sachem, the brave Wattawamat, 

Fled not; he was dead. Unswerv- 
ing and swift had a bullet 

Passed through his brain, and he fell 
with both hands clutching the 
greensward, 

Seeming in death to hold back from 
his foe the land of his fathers. 



348 



THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 



Thereon the flowers of the meadow 

the warriors lay, and above them, 
Silent, with folded arms, stood Hobo- 

mok, friend of the white man. 
Smiling at length he exclaimed to the 

stalwart Captain of Plymouth : 
" Pecksuot bragged very loud, of his 

courage, his strength, and his 

stature, — 
Mocked the great Captain, and called 

him a little man ; but I see now 
Big enough have you been to lay 

him speechless before you ! " 

Thus the first battle was fought 
and won by the stalwart Miles 
Standish. 

When the tidings thereof were 
brought to the village of Plym- 
outh, 

And as a trophy of war the head of 
the brave Wattawamat 

Scowled from the roof of the fort, 
v^^hich at once was a church and 
a fortress, 

All who beheld it rejoiced, and 
praised the Lord, and took cour- 
age. 

Only Priscilla averted her face from 
this spectre of terror, 

Thanking God in her heart that she 
had not married Miles Standish ; 

Shrinking, fearing almost, lest, com- 
ing home from his battles, 

He should lay claim to her hand, as 
the prize and reward of his valor. 

VIII. 

THE SPINNING-WHEEL. 

Month after month passed away, and 
in Autumn the ships of the mer- 
chants 

Came with kindred and friends, with 
cattle and corn for the Pilgrims. 

All in the village was peace ; the 
men were intent on their labors, 

Busy with hewing and building, with 
garden-plot and with merestead, 



Busy with breaking the glebe, and 
mowing the grass in the meadows, 

Searching the sea for its fish, and 
hunting the deer in the forest. 

All in the village was peace ; but at 
times the rumor of warfare 

Filled the air with alarm, and the ap- 
prehension of danger. 

Bravely the stalwart Miles Standish 
was scouring the land with his 
forces, 

Waxing valiant in fight and defeating 
the alien armies, 

Till his name had become a sound of 
fear to the nations. 

Anger was still in his heart, but at 
times the remorse and contrition 

Which in all noble natures succeed 
the passionate outbreak. 

Came like a rising tide, that en- 
counters the rush of a river, 

Staying its current awhile, but mak- 
ing it bitter and brackish. 

Meanwhile Alden at home had built 
him a new habitation, 

Solid, substantial, of timber rough- 
hewn from the firs of the forest. 

Wooden-barred was the door, and 
the roof was covered with rushes ; 

Latticed the windows were, and the 
window-panes were of paper. 

Oiled to admit the light, while wind 
and rain were excluded. 

There too he dug a well, and around 
it planted an orchard : 

Still may be seen to this day some 
trace of the well and the orchard. 

Close to the house was the stall, 
where, safe and secure from an- 
noyance, 

Raghorn, the snow-white bull, that 
had fallen to Alden's allotment 

In the division of cattle, might rumi- 
nate in the night-time 

Over the pastures he cropped, made 
fragrant by sweet pennyroyal. 

Oft when his labor was finished, 
with eager feet would the dreamer 



THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 



349 



Follow the pathway that ran through 

the woods to the house of Pris- 

cilla, 
Led by illusions romantic and subtile 

deceptions of fancy, 
Pleasure disguised as duty, and love 

in the semblance of friendship. 
Ever of her he thought, when he 

fashioned the walls of his dwell- 
ing; 
Ever of her he thought, when he 

delved in the soil of his garden ; 
Ever of her he thought, when he read 

in his Bible on Sunday 
Praise of the virtuous woman, as she 

is described in the Proverbs, — 
How the heart of her husband doth 

safely trust in her always. 
How all the days of her life she will 

do him good, and not evil, 
How she seeketh the wool and the 

flax and worketh with gladness, 
How she layeth her hand to the spin- 
dle and holdeth the distaff. 
How she is not afraid of the snow for 

herself or her household, 
Knowing her household are clothed 

with the scarlet cloth of her 

weaving ! 

So as she sat at her wheel one 

afternoon in the Autumn, 
Alden, who opposite sat, and was 

watching her dexterous fingers. 
As if the thread she was spinning 

were that of his life and his 

fortune, 
After a pause in their talk, thus spake 

to the sound of the spindle, 
" Truly, Priscilla," he said, " when 

I see you spinning and spinning, 
Never idle a moment, but thrifty and 

thoughtful of others, 
Suddenly you are transformed, are 

visibly changed in a moment; 
You are no longer Priscilla, but 

Bertha the Beautiful Spinner." 
Here the light foot on the treadle 

grew swifter and swifter; the 

spindle 



Uttered an angry snarl, and the 

thread snapped short in her fin- 
gers ; 
While the impetuous speaker, not 

heeding the mischief, continued : 
" You are the beautiful Bertha, the 

spinner, the queen of Helvetia; 
She whose story I read at a stall in 

the streets of Southampton, 
Who, as she rode on her palfrey, o'er 

valley and meadow and moun- 
tain, 
Ever was spinning her thread from 

a distaff fixed to her saddle. 
She was so thrifty and good, that her 

name passed mto a proverb. 
So shall it be with your own, 

when the spinning-wheel shall 

no longer 
Hum in the house of the farmer, 

and fill its chambers with music. 
Then shall the mothers, reproving, 

relate how it was in their child- 
hood, 
Praising the good old times, and the 

days of Priscilla the spinner ! " 
Straight uprose from her wheel the 

beautiful Puritan maiden, 
Pleased with the praise of her thrift 

from him whose praise was the 

sweetest. 
Drew from the reel on the table a 

snowy skein of her spinning. 
Thus making answer, meanwhile, to 

the flattering phrases of Alden : 
" Come, you must not be idle ; if I am 

a pattern for housewives. 
Show yourself equally worthy of being 

the model of husbands. 
Hold this skein on your hands, while 

I wind it, ready for knitting ; 
Then who knows but hereafter, when 

fashions have changed and the 

manners, 
Fathers may talk to their sons of the 

good old times of John Alden ! " 
Thus, with a jest and a laugh, the 

skein on his hands she adjusted, 
He sitting awkwardly there, with his 

arms extended before him, 



350 



THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 



She standing graceful, erect, and wind- 
ing the thread from his fingers, 

Sometimes cliiding a little his clumsy 
manner of holding, 

Sometimes touching his hands, as she 
disentangled expertly 

Twist or knot in the yarn, una- 
wares — for how could she help 
it ? — 

Sending electrical thrills through 
every nerve in his body. 

Lo ! in the midst of this scene, a 
breathless messenger entered, 

Bringing in hurry and heat the terri- 
ble news from the village. 

Yes; Miles Standish was dead! — 
an Indian had brought them the 
tidings, — 

Slain by a poisoned arrow, shot down 
in the front of the battle. 

Into an ambush beguiled, cut off with 
the whole of his forces ; 

All the town would be burned, and 
all the people be murdered ! 

Such were the tidings of evil that 
burst on the hearts of the hearers. 

Silent and statue like stood Priscilla, 
her face looking backward 

Still at the face of the speaker, her 
arms uplifted in horror ; 

But John Alden, upstarting, as if the 
barb of the arrow 

Piercing the heart of his friend had 
struck his own, and had sundered 

Once and forever the bonds that 
held him bound as a captive, 

Wild with excess of sensation, the 
awful delight of his freedom. 

Mingled with pain and regret, uncon- 
scious of what he was doing, 

Clasped, almost with a groan, the 
motionless form of Priscilla, 

Pressing her close to his heart, as for- 
ever his own, and exclaiming : 

" Those whom the Lord hath united, 
let no man put them asunder ! " 

Even as rivulets twain, from dis- 
tant and separate sources, 



Seeing each other afar, as they leap 
from the rocks, and pursuing 

Each one its devious path, but draw- 
ing nearer and nearer. 

Rush together at last, at their tryst- 
ing-place in the forest ; 

So these lives that had run thus far 
in separate channels, 

Coming in sight of each other, then 
swerving and flowing asunder. 

Parted by barriers strong, but drawing 
nearer and nearer. 

Rushed together at last, and one was 
lost in the other. 

IX. 

THE WEDDING-DAY. 

Forth from the curtain of clouds, 

from the tent of purple and 

scarlet. 
Issued the sun, the great High-Priest, 

in his garments resplendent. 
Holiness unto the Lord, in letters of 

light, on his forehead. 
Round the hem of his robe the 

golden bells and pomegranates. 
Blessing the world he came, and the 

bars of vapor beneath him 
Gleamed like a grate of brass, and the 

sea at his feet was a laver ! 

This was the wedding morn of 
Priscilla the Puritan maiden. 

Friends were assembled together ; 
the Elder and Magistrate also 

Graced the scene with their presence, 
and stood like the Law and the 
Gospel, 

One with the sanction of earth and 
one with the blessing of heaven. 

Simple and brief was the wedding, as 
that of Ruth and of Boaz. 

Softly the 5^outh and the maiden 
repeated the words of betrothal, 

Taking each other for husband and 
wife in the Magistrate's presence, 

After the Puritan way, and the laud- 
able custom of Holland. 



THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 



351 



Fervently then, and devoutly, the 

excellent Elder of Plymouth 
Prayed for the hearth and the home, 

that were founded that day in 

affection, 
Speaking of life and of death, and 

imploring divine benedictions. 

Lo ! when the service was ended, 
a form appeared on the thresh- 
old, 

Clad in armor of steel, a sombre and 
sorrowful figure ! 

Why does the bridegroom start and 
stare at the strange apparition ? 

Why does the bride turn pale, and 
hide her face on his shoulder ? 

Is it a phantom of air, — a bodiless, 
spectral illusion ? 

Is it a ghost from the grave, that has 
come to forbid the betrothal ? 

Long had it stood there unseen, a 
guest uninvited, unwelcomed ; 

Over its clouded eyes there had 
passed at times an expression 

Softening the gloom and revealing 
the warm heart hidden beneath 
them, 

As when across the sky the driving 
rack of the rain-cloud 

Grows for a moment thin, and betrays 
the sun by its brightness. 

Once it had lifted its hand, and moved 
its lips, but was silent, 

As if an iron will had mastered the 
fleeting intention. 

But when were ended the troth and 
the prayer and the last bene- 
diction, 

Into the room it strode, and the peo- 
ple beheld with amazement 

Bodily there in his armor Miles 
Standish, the Captain of Plym- 
outh ! 

Grasping the bridegroom's hand, he 
said with emotion, " Forgive me ! 

I have been angry and hurt, — too 
long have I cherished the feeling ; 

I have been cruel and hard, but now, 
thank God ! it is ended. 



Mine is the same hot blood that 

leaped in the veins of Hugh 

Standish, 
Sensitive, swift to resent, but as swift 

in atoning for error. 
Never so much as now was Miles 

Standish the friend of John 

Alden." 
Thereupon answered the bridegroom : 

" Let all be forgotten between 

us, — 
All save the dear, old friendship, and 

that shall grow older and dearer ! '' 
Then the Captain advanced, and, 

bowing, saluted Priscilla, 
Gravely, and after the manner of old- 
fashioned gentry in England, 
Something of camp and of court, of 

town and of country, commingled. 
Wishing her joy of her wedding, and 

loudly lauding her husband. 
Then he said with a smile : " I should 

have remembered the adage, — 
If you would be well served, you must 

serve yourself; and moreover, 
No man can gather cherries in Kent 

at the season of Christmas ! " 

Great was the people's amazement, 
and greater yet their rejoicing, 

Thus to behold once more the sun- 
burnt face of their Captain, 

Whom they had mourned as dead ; 
and they gathered and crowded 
about him, 

Eager to see him and hear him, for- 
getful of bride and of bridegroom, 

Questioning, answering, laughing, and 
each interrupting the other. 

Till the good Captain declared, being 
quite overpowered and bewil- 
dered. 

He had rather by far break into an 
Indian encampment, 

Than come again to a wedding to 
which he had not been invited. 

Meanwhile the bridegroom went 
forth and stood with the bride 
at the doorway, 



352 



THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 



Breathing the perfumed air of that 
warm and beautiful morning. 

Touched with autumnal tints, but 
lonely and sad in the sunshine, 

Lay extended before them the land 
of toil and privation ; 

There were the graves of the dead, 
and the barren waste of the sea- 
shore. 

There the familiar fields, the groves 
of pine, and the meadows; 

But to their eyes transfigured, it 
seemed as the Garden of Eden, 

Filled with the presence of God, 
whose voice was the sound of 
the ocean. 

Soon was their vision disturbed by 
the noise and stir of departure. 

Friends coming forth from the house, 
and impatient of longer delaying. 

Each with his plan for the day, and the 
work that was left uncompleted. 

Then from a stall near at hand, amid 
exclamations of wonder, 

Alden the thoughtful, the careful, so 
happy, so proud of Priscilla, 

Brought out his snow-white bull, 
obeying the hand of its master. 

Led by a cord that was tied to an 
iron ring in its nostrils. 

Covered with crimson cloth, and a 
cushion placed for a saddle. 

She should not walk, he said, through 
the dust and heat of the noon- 
day ; 

Nay, she should ride like a queen, 
not plod along like a peasant. 

Somewhat alarmed at first, but reas- 
sured by the others, 



Placing her hand on the cushion, her 

foot in the hand of her husband, 
Gayly, with joyous laugh, Priscilla 

mounted her palfrey. 
" Nothing is wanting now," he said 

with a smile, '"but the distaff; 
Then you would be in truth my queen, 

my beautiful Bertha ! " 

Onward the bridal procession now 
moved to their new habitation, 

Happy husband and wife, and friends 
conversing together. 

Pleasantly murmured the brook, as 
they crossed the ford in the forest, 

Pleased with the image that passed, 
like a dream of love through its 
bosom. 

Tremulous, floating in air, o'er the 
depths of the azure abysses. 

Down through the golden leaves the 
sun was pouring his splendors, 

Gleaming on purple grapes, that, from 
branches above them suspended, 

Mingled their odorous breath with 
the balm of the pine and the fir- 
tree, 

Wild and sweet as the clusters that 
grew in the valley of Eshcol. 

Like a picture it seemed of the primi- 
tive, pastoral ages. 

Fresh with the youth of the world, 
and recalling Rebecca and Isaac, 

Old and yet ever new, and simple 
and beautiful always. 

Love immortal and young in the 
endless succession of lovers. 

So through the Plymouth woods 
passed onward the bridal pro- 
cession. 



NOTES. 



Page 60. As Lope says. 

" La colora 
de un Espanol sentado no se templa, 
sino le representan en dos horas 
hasta el final juicio desde el Genesis." 
Lope de Vega. 
Page 62, Abernuncio Satanas. 
" Digo, Senora, respondio Sancho, lo que 
tengo dicho, que de los azotes abernuncio. 
Abrenuncio, habeis de decir, Sancho, y no 
como decis, dijo el Duque." — Do7t Quixote, 
Part II, ch, 35. 

Page 67. Fray Carrillo. 
The allusion here is to a Spanish Epi- 
gram* 

" Siempre Fray Carrillo estas 
cansandonos aca fuera; 
quien en tu celda estuviera 
para no verte jamas ! " 

Bo hi de Faber. Flo?-esta, No. 611. 

Page 67. Padre Francisco. 
This is from an Italian popular song : 
" ' Padre Francesco, 
Padre Francesco ! ' 
— Cosa volete del Padre Francesco — 
' V e una bella ragazzina 
Che si vuole confessar ! ' 
Fatte r entrare, fatte 1' entrare ! 
Che la voglio confessare." 

Kopisch. VolkstIiuT7iliche Poesien aiis 
alien Mundarten Italiens u?id seifter 
Inseln, p. 194. 
Page 68, Ave / cvjus calcem dare. 
From a monkish hymn of the twelfth cen- 
tury, in Sir Alexander Croke's Essay on the 
Origin, Progress, and Decline of Rhyming 
Latin Verse, p. 109. 

Page 72. 1 he gold of the Busiie. 
Busne is the name given by the Gipsies 
to all who are not of their race. 



Page 72. Count of the Cales. 

The Gipsies call themselves Cal6s. See 
Sorrow's valuable and extremely interesting 
work, The Zincali ; or an Account of the 
Gipsies in Spain. London, 1841. 

Page 74. Asks if his money-bags would 
rise. 

" lY volviendome a un lado, vl a un 
Avariento, que estaba preguntando a otro, 
(que por haber sido erabaisamado, y estar 
lexos sus tripas no hablaba, poique no 
habian llegado si habian de resucitar aquel 
dia todos los enterrados) si resucitarian 
unos bolsones suyos ? " — El Suefio de las 
Calaveras. 

Page 74. And amen ! said viy Cid 
Campeador. 

A line from the ancient Poema del Cid. 

"Amen, dixo Mio Cid el Campeador." 

Line 30^4. 
Page 75. The river of his thoughts. 
This expression is from Dante : 
" Si che chiaro 
Per essa scenda della mente il fiume," 

Byron has likewise used the expression, 
though I do not recollect in which of his 
poems. 

Page 75. Mari Franca. A common 
Spanish proverb, used to turn aside a ques- 
tion one does not wish to answer : 

" Porque caso Mari Franca 
quatro leguas de Salamanca." 

Page 76. Ay, soft, emerald eyes. 

The Spaniards, with good reason, con- 
sider this color of the eye as beautiiul, and 
celebrate it in song; as, for example, in 
the well-known Villancico : 



" Ay ojuelos verdes, 
ay los mis ojuelos, 



353 



354 



NOTES. 



ay hagan los cielos 
que de mi te acuei des ! 

Tengo confianza 
de mis verdes ojos." 
Bohl de Faber. Floresta, No. 255. 

Dante speaks of Beatrice's eyes as em- 
eralds. Purgatorio, xxxi. 116. Lami says, 
in his Annotazioni, " Erano i suoi occhi 
d' un turchino verdiccio, simile a quel del 
mare." 

Page 76. The Avenging Child. 

See the ancient ballads of El hzfante 
Vengador and Calaynos. 

Page jj. All are sleeping. 

From the Spanish. Bohl's Floresta, No. 
282. 

Page 84. Good-night. 

From the Spanish; as are likewise the 
songs immediately following, and that which 
commences the first scene of Act III. 

Page 91. The evil eye. 

" In the Gitano language, casting the evil 
eye is called Querelar nasula, which simply 
means making sick, and which, according 
to the common superstition, is accomplished 
by casting an evil look at people, especially 
children, who, from the tenderness of their 
constitution, are supposed to be more easily 
blighted than those of a more mature age. 
After receiving the evil glance, they fall 
sick, and die in a few hours. 

" The Spaniards have very little to say 
respecting the evil eye, though the belief in 
it is very prevalent, especially in Andalusia, 
amongst the lower orders. A stag's horn 
is considered a good safeguard, and on that 
account a small horn, tipped with silver, is 
frequently attached to the children's necks 
by means of a cord braided from the hair 
of a black mare's tail. Should the evil 
glance be cast, it is imagined that the horn 
receives it, and instantly snaps asunder. 
Sxich horns may be purchased in some of 
the silversmiths' shops at Seville." 

Bo R row's Zincali. Vol. I, ch. ix. 

Page 92. On the top of a mountain I 
stand. 

This and the following scraps of song are 
from Borrow's Zincali; or an Account of 
the Gipsies in Spain. 



The Gipsy words in the same scene may 
be thus interpreted : 

John-Dorados, pieces of gold. 

Pigeon, a simpleton. 

In your morocco, stripped. 

Doves, sheets. 

Moon, a shirt. 

Chirelin, a thief. 

Mu'rcig alter OS, those who steal at night- 
fall. 

Rastilleros, footpads. 

Hermit, highway- robber. 

Planets, candles. 

Cojmnandments, the fingers. 

Saint Martin asleep, to rob a person 
asleep. 

Lanterns, eyes. 

Goblin, police officer. 

Papagayo, a spy. 

Vineyards aitd Dancing John, to take 
flight. 

Page 97. If thou art sleeping, maiden. 

From the Spanish; as is likewise tlie 
song of the Contrabandista, on page 97. 

Page 100. All the Foresters of Flan- 
ders. 

The title of Foresters was given to the 
early governors of Flanders, appointed by 
the kings of France. Lyderick du Bucq, in 
the days of Clotaire the Second, was the 
first of them ; and Beaudoin Bras-de-Fer, 
who stole away the fair Judith, daughter of 
Charles the Bald, from the French court, 
and married her in BrugfS, was the last. 
After him, the title of Forester was changed 
to that of Count. Philippe d'Alsace, Guy 
de Dampierre, and Louis de Crecy, coming 
later in the order of time, were therefore 
rather Counts than Foresters. Philippe 
went twice to the Holy Land as a Crusader, 
and died of the plague at St. Jean-d'Acre, 
shortly after the capture of the city by the 
Christians. Guy de Dampierre died in the 
prison of Compiegne. Louis de Crecy was 
son and successor of Robert de Bethune, 
who strangled his wife, Yolande de Bour- 
gogne, with the bridle of his horse, for hav- 
ing poisoned, at the age of eleven years, 
Charles, his son by his first wife, Blanche 
d'Anjou, 

Page 100. Stately dames, like queens 
attended. 



NOTES. 



355 



When Philippe-le-Bel, king of France, 
visited Flanders with his queen, she was so 
astonished at the magnificence of the dames 
of Bruges, that she exclaimed, — " Je croyais 
6tre seule reine ici, mais il parait que ceux 
de Flandre qui se trouvent dans nos prisons 
sont tous des princes, car leurs femmes 
sont habillees comme des princesses et des 
reines." 

When the burgomasters of Ghent, Bruges, 
and Ypres went to Paris to pay homage to 
King John, in 135 1, they were received with 
great pomp and distinction ; but, being in- 
vited to a festival, they observed that their 
seats at table were not furnished with cush- 
ions ; whereupon, to make known their 
displeasure at this want of regard to their 
dignity, they folded their richly embroidered 
cloaks and seated themselves upon them. 
On rising from table, they left their cloaks 
behind them, and, being informed of their 
apparent forgetfulness, Simon van Eer- 
trycke, burgomaster of Bruges, replied, — 
" We Flemings are not in the habit of carry- 
ing away our cushions after dinner." 

Page 100. Knights who bore the Fleece 
of Gold. 

PhiHppe de Bourgogne, surnamed Le 
Bon, espoused Isabella of Portugal, on the 
loth of January, 1430; and on the same 
day instituted the famous order of the 
Fleece of Gold. 

Page 100. I beheld the gentle Mary. 

Marie de Valois, Duchess of Burgundy, 
was left by the death of her father, Charles- 
le-Temeraire, at the age of twenty, the 
richest heiress of Europe. She came to 
Bruges, as Countess of Flanders, in 1477, 
and in the same year was married by proxy 
to the Archduke Maximilian. According 
to the custom of the time, the Duke of Ba- 
varia, Maximilian's substitute, slept with the 
princess. They were both in complete 
dress, separated by a naked sword, and 
attended by four armed guards. Marie 
was adored by her subjects for her gentle- 
ness and her many other virtues. 

Maximilian was son of the Emperor 
Frederick the Third, and is the same per- 
son mentioned afterwards in the poem of 
Nuremberg -AS the Kaiser Maximilian, and 
the hero of Pfinzing's poem of Teuerdank. 



Having been imprisoned by the revolted 
burghers of Bruges, they refused to release 
him, till he consented to kneel in the public 
square, and to swear on the Holy Evan- 
gelists and the body of Saint Donatus, that 
he would not take vengeance upon them 
for their rebellion. 

Page 100. The bloody battle of the Spurs 
of Gold. 

This battle, the most memorable in Flem- 
ish history, was fought under the walls of 
Courtray, on the nth of July, 1302, between 
the French and the Flemings, the former 
commanded by Robert, Comte d'Artois, 
and the latter by Guillaume de Juliers, and 
Jean, Comte de Namur. The French army 
was completely routed, with a loss of 
twenty thousand infantry and seven thou- 
sand cavalry; among whom were sixty- 
three princes, dukes and counts, seven 
hundred lords-banneret, and eleven hun- 
dred noblemen. The flower of the French 
nobility perished on that day, to which his- 
tory has given the name of the Journee des 
Eperons d'Or, from the great number of 
golden spurs found on the field of battle. 
Seven hundred of them were hung up as a 
trophy in the church of Notre Dame de 
Courtray; and, as the cavaliers of that day 
wore but a sing'e spur each, these vouched 
to God for the violent and bloody death of 
seven hundred of his creatures. 

Page 100. Saiu the fight at Mirmewater. 

When the inhabitants of Bruges were 
digging a canal at Minnewater, to bring the 
waters of the Lys from Deynze to their city, 
they were attacked and routed by the 
citizens of Ghent, whose commerce would 
have been much injured by the canal. They 
were led by Jean Lyons, captain of a mili- 
tary company at Ghent, called the Chaperons 
Blancs. He had great sway over the tur- 
bulent populace, who, in those prosperous 
times of the city, gained an easy livelihood 
by laboring two or three days in the week, 
and had the remaining four or five to devote 
to public affairs. The fight at Minnewater 
was followed by open rebellion against 
Louis de Maele, the Count of Flanders and 
Protector of Bruges. His superb chl.teau 
of Wondelghem was pillaged and burnt, 
and the insurgents forced the gates of 



356 



NOTES. 



Bruges, and entered in triumph, with Lyons 
mounted at their head. A few days after- 
wards he died suddenly, perhaps by poison. 

Meanwhile the insurgents received a 
check at the village of Nevele ; and two 
hundred of them perished in the church, 
which was burnt by the Count's orders. 
One of the chiefs, Jean de Lannoy, took 
refuge in the belfry. From the summit of 
the tower, he held forth his purse filled with 
gold, and begged for deliverance. It was 
in vain. His enemies cried to him from 
below to save himself as best he might; 
and, half suffocated with smoke and flame, 
he threw himself from the tower and per- 
ished at their feet. Peace was soon after- 
wards established, and the Count retired to 
faithful Bruges. 

Page loo. The Golden Drag07is nest. 

The Golden Dragon, taken from the 
church of St. Sophia, at Constantinople, in 
one of the Crusades, and placed on the 
belfry of Bruges, was afterwards transported 
to Ghent by Philip van Artevelde, and still 
adorns the belfry of that city. 

The inscription on the alarm-bell at Ghent 
is, " Myne/i 7jaem is Roland ; als ik klep is 
er brand and als ik luy is er victor ie in het 
land." My name is Roland; when I toll 
there is fire, and when I ring there is victory 
in the land. 

Page 103. That their great imperial city 
stretched its hand through every clime. 

An old popular proverb of the town runs 
thus : — 

" N Urn berg's Hand 
Geht durch alle Land." 
Nuremberg's hand 
Goes through every land. 

Page 103. Sat the poet Melchior singing 
Kaiser Maximilians praise. 

Melchior Pfinzing was one of the most 
celebrated German poets of the sixteenth 
century. The hero of his Teiierdank was 
the reigning emperor, Maximilian ; and the 
poem was to the Germans of that day what 
the Orlando Furioso was to the Italians. 
Maximilian is mentioned before, in the 
Belfry of Bruges. See page 100. 

Page 103. In the church of sainted Sebald 
sleeps enshrined his holy dust. 



The tomb of Saint Sebald, in the church 
which bears his name, is one of the richest 
works of art in Nuremberg. It is of bronze, 
and was cast by Peter Vischer and his sons, 
who labored upon it thirteen years. It is 
adorned with nearly one hundred figures, 
among which those of the Twelve Apostles 
are conspicuous for size and beauty. 

Page 103. In the church of sainted Law- 
rence stands a pix of sculpture rare. 

This pix, or tabernacle for the vessels of 
the sacrament, is by the hand of Adam 
Kraft. It is an exquisite piece of sculpture 
in white stone, and rises to the height of 
sixty-four feet. It stands in the choir, whose 
richly painted windows cover it with varied 
colors. 

Page 104. Wisest of the Twelve Wise 
Masters. 

The Twelve Wise Masters was the title 
of the original corporation of the Master- 
singers. Hans Sachs, the cobbler of Nu- 
remberg, though not one of the original 
Twelve, was the most renowned of the 
Mastersingers, as well as the most volumi- 
nous. He flourished in the sixteenth cen- 
tury; and left behind him thirty-four foiio 
volumes of manuscript, containing two 
hundred and eight plays, one thousand and 
seven hundred comic tales, and between 
four and five thousand lyric poems. 

Page 104. As in Adam Puschmans song. 

Adam Puschman, in his poem on the 
death of Hans Sachs, describes him as he 
appeared in a vision : — 

" An old man. 
Gray and white, and dove-like. 
Who had, in sooth, a great beard, 
And read in a fair, great book, 
Beautiful with golden clasps.'' 

Page 109. The Occultation of Orion. 

Astronomically speaking, this title is in- 
correct ; as I apply to a constellation what 
can properly be applied to some of its stars 
only. But my observation is made from the 
hill of song, and not from that of science; 
and will, I trust, be found sufficiently accu- 
rate for the present purpose. 

Page 114. Walter von der Vogelweide. 

Walter von der Vogelweide, or Bird- 
Meadow, was one of the principal Minne- 



NOTES. 



357 



singers of the thirteenth century. He tri- 
umphed over Heinrich von Ofterdingen in 
that poetic contest at Wartburg Castle, 
known in literary history as the War of 
Wartburg. 

Page 117. Like imperial Charlemagne. 

Charlemagne may be called by preemi- 
nence the monarch of farmers. According 
to the German ..radition, in seasons of great 
abundance, his spirit crosses the Rhine on 
a golden bridge at Bingen, and blesses the 
cornfields and the vineyards. During his 
lifetime, he did not disdain, says Montes- 
quieu, " to sell the eggs from the farm yards of 
his domains, and the superfluous vegetables 
of his gardens ; while he distributed among 
his people the wealth of the Lombards and 
the immense treasures of the Huns." 

Page 125. Behold, at last. 

Each tall and tapering mast. 
Is swung into its place. 

I wish to anticipate a criticism on this 
passage by stating that sometimes, though 
not usually, vessels are launched fully rigged 
and sparred. I have availed myself of the 
exception, as better suited to my purposes 
than the general rule ; but the reader will 
see that it is neither a blunder nor a poetic 
license. On this subject a friend in Port- 
land, Maine, writes me thus : — 

" In this State, and also, I am told, in New 
York, ships are sometimes rigged upon the 
stocks, in order to save time or to make a 
show. There was a fine, large ship launched 
last summer at Ellsworth, fully rigged and 
sparred. Some years ago a ship was 
launched here, with her rigging, spars, sails, 
and cargo aboard. She sailed the next day 
and — was never heard of again! I hope 
this will not be the fate of your poem ! " 

Page 129. Sir Huynphrey Gilbert. 

" When the wind abated and the vessels 
were near enough, the Admiral was seen 
constantly sitting in the stern, with a book 
in his hand. On the 9th of September he 
was seen for the last time, and was heard 
by the people of the Hind to say, 'We are 
as near heaven by sea as by land.' In the 
following night the lights of the ship sud- 
denly disappeared. The people in the other 
vessel kept a good lookout for him during 
the remainder ©f the voyage. On the 22d 



of September they arrived, through much 
tempest and peril, at Falmouth. But noth- 
ing more was seen or heard of the Admiral." 
— Belknap's American Biography, I, 203. 

Page 139. The Blind Girl of Castel- 
Cuille. 

Jasmin, the author of this beautiful poem, 
is to the South of France what Burns is to 
the South of Scotland, — the representative 
of the heart of the people, — one of those 
happy bards who are born with their mouths 
full of birds {la bouco pleno d' aouzelous). 
He has written his own biography in a 
poetic form, and the simple narrative of his 
poverty, his struggles, and his triumphs is 
very touching. He still lives at Agen, on 
the Garonne ; and long may he live there 
to delight his native land with native songs ! 

The following description of his person 
and way of life is taken from the graphic 
pages of " Beam and the Pyrenees, " by 
Louisa Stuart Costello, whose charming 
pen has done so much to illustrate the 
French provinces and their literature. 

" At the entrance of the promenade, Du 
Gravier, is a row of small houses, — some 
cafes, others shops, the indication of which 
is a painted cloth placed across the way, 
with the owner's name in bright gold letters, 
in the manner of the arcades in the streets, 
and their announcements. One of the most 
glaring of these was, we observed, a bright 
blue flag, bordered with gold ; on which, 
in large gold letters, appeared the name of 
' Jasmin, Coiffeur.' We entered, and were 
welcomed by a smiling, dark-eyed woman, 
who informed us that her husband was busy 
at that moment dressing a customer's hair, 
but he was desirous to receive us, and 
begged we would walk into his parlor at 
the back of the shop. 

" She exhibited to us a laurel crown of 
gold, of delicate workmanship, sent from 
the city of Clemence Isaure, Toulouse, to 
the poet ; who will probably one day take 
his place in the capitoul. Next came a 
golden cup, with an inscription in his 
honor, given by the citizens of Auch ; a 
gold watch, chain, and seals, sent by the 
king, Louis Philippe ; an emerald ring 
worn and presented by the lamented Duke 



358 



NOTES. 



of Orleans ; a pearl pin, by the graceful 
Duchess, who, on the poet's visit to Paris 
accompanied by his son, received him in 
the words he puts into the mouth of Henri 
Quatre : — 

' Brabes Gascons ! 
A moun amou per bous aou dibes creyre : 
Bends ! bends ey plaze de bous beyre : 

Aproucha bous ! ' 

A fine service of linen, the offering of the 
town of Pau, after its citizens had given 
fetes in his honor, and loaded him with 
caresses and praises ; and nicknacks and 
jewels of all descriptions offered to him by 
lady-ambassadresses, and great lords : Eng- 
lish ' misses ' and ' miladis ' ; and French, 
and foreigners of all nations who did or did 
not understand Gascon. 

"All this, though startling, was not 
convincing. Jasmin, the barber, might 
only be a fashion, ?i furore, caprice, after 
all; and it was evident that he knew how 
to get up a scene well. When we had be- 
come nearly tired of looking over these 
tributes to his genius, the door opened, and 
the poet himself appeared. His manner 
was free and unembarrassed, well-bred, and 
lively. He received our compliments nat- 
urally, and like one accustomed to homage, 
said he was ill, and unfortunately too hoarse 
to read anything to us, or should have been 
delighted to do so. He spoke with a broad 
Gascon accent, and very rapidly and elo- 
quently ; ran over the story of his successes ; 
told us that his grandfather had been a 
beggar, and all his family very poor ; that 
he was now as rich as he wished to be; his 
son placed in a good position at Nantes ; 
then showed us his son's picture, and spoke 
of his disposition, to which his brisk little 
wife added, that, though no fool, he had not 
his father's genius, to which truth Jasmin 
assented as a matter of course. I told him 
of having seen mention mude of him in an 
English review; which he said had been 
sent him by Lord Durham, who had paid 
him a visit ; and then I spoke of ' Me cal 
mouri' as known to me. This was enough 
to make him forget his hoarseness and 
ev^ry other evil : it would never do for 
me to imagine that that little song was 



his best composition ; it was merely his 
first ; he must try to read to me a little of 
' L'Abuglo ' — a few verses of ' Frangouneto ' ; 
— 'You will be charmed,' said he; 'but if 
I were well, and you would give me the 
pleasure of your company for some time, if 
you were not merely running through Agen, 
I would kill you with weeping, — I would 
make you die with distress for my poor 
Margarido, — my pretty Franyouneto ! ' 

" He caught up two copies of his book, 
from a pile lying on the table, and making 
us sit close to him, he pointed out the 
French translation on one side, which he 
told us to follow while he read in Gascon. 
He began in a rich, soft voice, and as he 
advanced, the surprise of Hamlet on hearing 
the player-king recite the disasters of Hec- 
uba was but a type of ours, to find ourselves 
carried away by the spell of his enthusiasm. 
His eyes swam in tears ; he became pale 
and red; he trembled; he recovered him- 
self; his face was now joyous, now exulting, 
gay, jocose ; in fact he was twenty actors in 
one ; he rang the changes from Rachel to 
Bouffe ; and he finished by delighting us, 
besides beguiling us of our tears, and over- 
whelming us with astonishment. 

" He would have been a treasure on the 
stage; for he is still, though his first youth 
is past, remarkably good-looking and strik- 
ing; with black, sparkling eyes of intense 
expression; a fine, ruddy complexion; a 
countertance of wondrous mobility; a good 
figure ; and action full of fire and grace ; 
he has handsome hands, which he uses 
with infinite effect ; and on the whole he is 
the best actor of the kincf I ever saw. I 
could now quite understand what a trouba- 
dour ox jongleur might be, and I look upon 
Jasmin as a revived specimen of that extinct 
race. Such as he is might have been 
Gaucelm Faidit, of Avignon, the friend of 
Coeur de Lion, who lamented the death 
of the hero in such moving strains ; such 
might have been Bernard de Ventadoiir, 
who sang the praises of Queen Elinore's 
beauty; such Geoffrey Rudel, of Blaye, on 
his own Garonne ; such the wild Vidal ; 
certain it is, that none of the troubadours 
of old could more move, by their singing or 
reciting, than Jasmin, in whom all their 



NOTES. 



359 



long-smothered fire and traditional magic 
seems reillumined. 

" We found we had stayed hours instead 
of minutes with the poet; but he would 
not hear of any apology, — only regretted 
that his voice was so out of tune, in conse- 
quence of a violent cold, under which he 
was really laboring, and hoped to see us 
again. He told us our country-women of 
Pau had laden him with kindness and atten- 
tion, and spoke with such enthusiasm of the 
beauty of certain ' misses,' that I feared his 
little wife would feel somewhat piqued; but, 
on the contrary, she stood by, smiling and 
happy, and enjoying the stories of his 
triumphs. I remarked that he had restored 
the poetry of the troubadours; asked him 
if he knew their songs ; and said he was 
worthy to stand at their Head. ' I am, in- 
deed, a troubadour,' said he, with energy; 
' but I am far beyond them all ; they were 
but beginners ; they never composed a poem 
like my Francouneto ! there are no poets in 
France now, — there cannot be ; the lan- 
guage does not admit of it ; where is the fire, 
the spirit, the expression, the tenderness, the 
force of the Gascon ? French is but the 
ladder to reach to the first floor of Gascon, 
— how can you get up to a height except by 
a ladder ! ' 

" I returned by Agen, after an absence in 
the Pyrenees of some months, and renewed 
my acquaintance w"ith Jasmin and his dark- 
eyed wife. I did not expect that I should 
be recognized ; but the moment I entered 
the little shop I was hailed as an old friend. 
' Ah ! ' cried Jasmin, ' enfin la voila encore ! ' 
I could not but be flattered by this recollec- 
tion, but soon found it was less on my own 
account that I was thus welcomed, than be- 
cause a circumstance had occurred to the 
poet which he thought I could perhaps ex- 
plain. He produced several French news- 
papers, in which he pointed out to me an 
article headed ' Jasmin a Londres ' ; being a 
translation of certain notices of himself, 
which had appeared in a leading English 
literary journal. He had, he said, been in- 
formed of the honor done him by num^erous 
friends, and assured me his fame had been 
much spread by this means; and he was 



so delighted on the occasion, that he had 
resolved to learn English, in order that he 
might judge of the translations from his 
works, which, he had been told, were well 
done. I enjoyed his surprise, while I in- 
formed him that I knew who was the reviewtr 
and translator; and explained the reason 
for the verses giving pleasure in an English 
dress to be the superior simplicity of the 
English language over modern French, for 
which he has a great contempt, as unfitted 
for lyrical composition. He inquired of me 
respecting Burns, to whom he had been 
likened; and begged me to tell him some- 
thing of Moore. The delight of himself and 
his wife was amusing, at having discovered 
a secret which had puzzled them so long. 

" He had a thousand things to tell me; in 
particular, that he had only the day before 
received a letter from the Duchess of 
Orleans, informing him that she had or- 
dered a medal of her late husband to be 
struck, the first of which would be sent to 
him ; she also announced to him the agree- 
able news of the king having granted him a 
pension of a thousand francs. He smiled 
and wept by turns, as he told all this ; and 
declared, much as he was elated at the pos- 
session of a sum which made him a rich 
man for life, the kindness of the duchess 
gratified him even more. 

" He then made us sit down while he read 
us two new poems ; both charming, and full 
of grace and naivete ; and one very affect- 
ing, being an address to the king, alluding 
to the death of his son. As he read, his 
wife stood by, and fearing we did not quite 
comprehend his language, she made a re- 
mark to that effect: to which he answered, 
impatiently, ' Nonsense, — don't you see they 
are in tears ? ' This was unanswerable ; and 
we were allowed to hear the poem to the 
end; and I certainly never listened to any- 
thing more feelingly and energetically de- 
livered. 

" We had much conversation, for he was 
anxious to detain us, and, in the course of 
it, he told me that he had been by some ac- 
cused of vanity. 'Oh,' he rejoined, 'what 
would you have ! I am a child of nature, 
and cannot conceal my feelings ; the only 
difference between me and a man of refine- 



36o 



NOTES. 



ment is, that he knows how to conceal his 
vanity and exultation at success, which I let 
everybody see.' " — Beam and the Pyrenees, 
I, 369, et seq. 

Page 145. A Christinas Carol. 

The following description of Christmas in 
Burgundy is from M. Fertiault's Coup d'ceil 
sur les Noels e7Z Bourgogne, prefixed to the 
Paris edition of Les Noels Bourguignons de 
Berftard de la Monnoye {Gui Barozai), 
1842. 

" Every year, at the approach of Advent, 
people refresh their memories, clear their 
throats, and begin preluding, in the long 
evenings by the fireside, those carols whose 
invariable and eternal theme is the coming 
of the Messiah. They take from old closets 
pamphlets, little collections begrimed with 
dust and smoke, to which the press, and 
sometimes the pen, has consigned these 
songs; and as soon as the first Sunday of 
Advent sounds, they gossip, they gad about, 
they sit together by the fireside, sometiines 
at one house, sometimes at another, taking 
turns in paying for the chestnuts and white 
wine, but singing with one common voice 
the grotesque praises of the Little Jesus. 
There are very few villages even, which, 
during all the evenings of Advent, do not 
hear some of these curious canticles shouted 
in their streets, to the nasal drone of bag- 
pipes. In this case the minstrel comes as a 
reinforcement to the singers at the fireside; 
he brings and adds his dose of joy (spontane- 
ous or mercenary, it matters little which) to 
the joy which breathes around the hearth- 
stone ; and when the voices vibrate and 
resound, one voice more is always welcome. 
There, it is not the purity of the notes which 
makes the concert, but the quantity, — non 
gualitas, sed quantitas ; then, (to finish at 
once with the minstrel,) when the Saviour 
has at length been born in the manger, and 
the beautiful Christmas Eve is passed, the 
rustic piper makes his round among the 
houses, where every one compliments and 
thanks him, and, moreover, gives him m 
small coin the price of the shrill notes with 
which he has enlivened the evening enter- 
tainments. 

" More or less, until Christmas Eve, all 
goes on in this way among our devout 



singers, with the difference of some gallons 
of wine or some hundreds of chestnuts. 
But this famous eve once come, the scale 
is pitched upon a higher key, the closing 
evening must be a memorable one. The 
toilet is begun at nightfall ; then comes the 
hour of supper, admonishing divers appe- 
tites; and groups, as numerous as possible, 
are formed to take together this comfortable 
evening repast. The supper finished, a 
circle gathers around the hearth, which is 
arranged and set in order this evening after 
a particular fashion, and which at a later 
hour of the night is to become the object of 
special interest to the children. On the 
burning brands an enormous log has been 
placed. This log assuredly does not change 
Its nature, but it changes its name during 
this evening: it is called the Suche (the 
Yule-log). 'Look you,' say tliey to the 
children, 'if you are good this evening, 
Noel ' (for with children one must always 
personify) ' will rain down sugar-plums in 
the night." And the children sit demurely, 
keeping as quiet as their turbulent little 
natures will permit. The groups of older per- 
sons, not always as orderly as the children, 
seize this good opportunity to surrender 
themselves with merry hearts and bois- 
terous voices to the chanted worship of the 
miraculous Noel. For this final solenmity, 
they have kept the most powerful, the most 
enthusiastic, the most electrifying carols. 
Noel ! Noel ! Noel ! This magic word re- 
sounds on all sides; it seasons every sauce, 
it is served up with every course. Of the 
thousands of canticles which are heard, 
on this famous eve, ninety-nine in a hun- 
dred begin and end with this word ; which 
is, one may say. their Alpha and Omega, 
their crown and footstool. This last even- 
ing, the merry-making is prolonged. In- 
stead of retiring at ten or eleven o'clock, as 
is generally done on all the preceding even- 
ings, they wait for the stroke of midnight: 
this word sufficiently proclaims to wliat 
ceremony they are going to repair. For 
ten minutes or a quarter of an hour, the 
bells have been calling the faithful with a 
triple-bob-major; and each one, furnished 
with a little taper streaked with various 
colors, (the Christmas Candle,) goes 



NOTES. 



361 



through the crowded streets, where the 
lanterns are dancing hke Will-o'-the-Wisps, 
at the impatient summons of the multitudi- 
nous chimes. It is the Midnight Mass. 
Once mside the church, they hear with 
more or less piety the Mass, emblematic of 
the coming of the Messiah. Then in tumult 
and great haste they return homeward, 
always in numerous groups ; they salute 
the Yule-log; they pay homage to the 
hearth ; they sit down at table ; and, amid 
songs which reverberate louder than ever, 
make this meal of after-Christmas, so long 
looked for, so cherished, so joyous, so noisy, 
and which it has been thought fit to call, we 
hardly know why, Rossigno7i. The supper 
eaten at nightfall is no impediment, as you 
may imagine, to the appetite's returning ; 
above all, if the going to and from church 
has made the devout eaters feel some little 
shafts of the sharp and biting north wind. 
Rossignon then goes on merrily, — some- 
times far into the morning hours ; but, 
nevertheless, gradually throats grow hoarse, 
stomachs are filled, the Yule-log burns out, 
and at last the hour arrives when each one, 
as best he may, regains his domicile and 
his bed, and puts with himself between the 
sheets the material for a good sore-throat, 
or a good indigestion, for the morrow. Pre- 
vious to this, care has been taken to place 
in the slippers, or wooden shoes, of the chil- 
dren, the sugar-plums, which shall be for 
them, on their waking, the welcome fruits 
of the Christmas-log." 

In the Glossary, the Suche, or Yule-log, 
is thus defined: — 

" This is a huge log, which is placed on the 
fire on Christmas Eve, and which in Bur- 
gundy is called, on this account, lai Suche 
de Noel. Then the father of the family, par- 
ticularly among the middle classes, sings 
solemnly Christmas carols with his wife and 
children, the smallest of whom he sends into 
the corner to pray that the Yule-log may 
bear him some sugar-plums. Meanwhile, 
little parcels of them are placed under each 
end of the log, and the children come and 
pick them up, believing, in good faith, that 
the great log has borne them." 

Page 147. That of our vices we can frame 
A ladder. 



The words of St. Augustine are, " De 
vitiis nostris scalam nobis lacimus, si vitia 
ipsa calcamus." 

Sermon III, De Ascenslone. 

Page 148. The Phantom Ship. 

A detailed account of this " apparition of 
a Ship in the Air " is given by Cotton Mather 
in his Magnalia Christi, Book I, Ch. VI. 
It is contained in a letter from tlie Rev. 
James Pierpont, Pastor of New Haven. To 
this account Mather adds these words : — 

" Reader, there being yet living so many 
credible gentlemen, that were eyewitnesses 
of this wonderful thing, I venture to pub- 
lish it for a thing as undoubted as 't is 
wonderful." 

Page 151. And the Emperor but a Macho. 

Macho, in Spanish, signifies a mule. 
Colondrina is the ieminine form of Golo?z- 
drino, a swallow, and also a cant name for 
a deserter. 

Page 154. Oliver Basselin. 

Oliver Basselin, the '' Fere joyetix du Vau- 
deville',' flourished m the fifteenth century, 
and gave to his convivial songs the name 
of his native valleys, in which he sang them, 
Vaux-de-Vire. This name was afterwards 
corrupted into the modern Vaudeville. 

Page 155. Victor Galbraith. 

This poem is lounded on fact. Victor 
Galbraith was a bugler in a company of 
volunteer cavalry, t.nd was shot in Mexico 
for some breach of discipline. It is a com- 
mon superstition among soldiers that no 
balls will kill them unless their names are 
written on them. The old proverb says, 
" Every bullet has its billet." 

Page 156. / remember the sea-fight far 
away. 

This was the engagement between the 
Enterprise and Boxer off the harbor of 
Portland, in which both captains were slain. 
They were buried side by side in the ceme- 
tery on Mountjoy. 

Page 160. Santa Filomena. 

"At Pisa the church of San Francisco 
contains a chapel dedicated lately to Santa 
Filomena; over the altar is a picture, by 
Sabatelli, representing the saint as a beauti- 
ful nymph-like figure, floating down from 
heaven, attended by two ani^els bearing the 
lily, palm, and javelin, and beneath, in the 



362 



NOTES. 



foreground, the sick and maimed, who are 
healed by her intercession."— Mrs, Jame- 
son, Sacred and Legendary Art, il, 298. 

The Golden Legend. The old Le- 
genda Aurea, or Golden Legend, was orig- 
inally written in Latin, in the thirteenth 
century, by Jacobus de Voragine, a 
Dominican friar, who afterwards be- 
came Archbishop of Genoa, and died 
in 1292. 

He called his book simply " Legends of 
the Saints." The epithet of Golden was 
given it by his admirers ; for, as Wynkin de 
Worde says, " Like as passeth gold in value 
all other metals, so this Legend exceedeth 
all other books." But Edward Leigh, in 
much distress of mind, calls it " a book 
written by a man of a leaden heart for the 
basenesse of the errours that are without wit 
or reason, and of a brazen forehead for his 
impudent boldnesse m reporting things so 
fabulous and incredible." 

This work, the great text-book of the 
legendary lore of the Middle Ages, was 
translated into French in the fourteenth 
century by Jean de Vignay, and in the fif- 
teenth into English by William Caxton. It 
has lately been made more accessible by a 
new French translation : La Lcgende Doree, 
traduUe du Latin, par M. G. B. Paris, 
1850. There is a copy of the original, with 
the Gesta Longobardorum appended, in 
the Harvard College Library, Cambridge, 
printed at Strasburg, 1496. The title-page 
is wanting ; and the volume begins with 
the Tabula Legendorum. 

I have called this poem the Golden 
Legend, because the story upon which it is 
founded seems to me to surpass all other 
legends in beauty and significance. It 
exhibits, amid the corruptions of the Middle 
Ages, the virtue of disinterestedness and 
self-sacrifice, and the power of Faith, Hope, 
and Charity, sufficient for all the exigencies 
of life and death. The story is told, and 
perhaps invented, by Hartmann von der 
Aue, a Minnesinger of the twelfth century. 
The original may be found in Mailath's 
Altdeutsche Gedichte, with a modern Ger- 
man version. There is another in Mar- 
bach's Volksbiicher, No. 32. 



Page 196. For these bells have been 
anointed. 
And baptized with holy water / 

The Consecration and Baptism of Bells is 
one of the most curious ceremonies of the 
Church in the Middle Ages. The Council 
of Cologne ordained as follows : — 

" Let the bells be blessed, as the trumpets 
of the Church militant, by which the people 
are assembled to hear the word of God; 
the clergy to announce his mercy by day, 
and his truth in their nocturnal vigils: 
that by their sound the faithful may be in- 
vited to prayers, and that the spirit of de- 
votion in them may be increased. The 
fathers have also maintained that demons, 
affiighted by the sound of bells calling 
Christians to prayers, would flee away; 
and when they fled, the persons of the faith- 
ful would be secure: that the destruction 
of lightnings and whirlwinds would be 
averted, and the spirits of the storm de- 
feated." — Edinburgh Encyclopcedia, Art. 
Bells. See also Scheible's Kloster, VI, 
776. 

Page 211. It is the malediction of Eve f 

" Nee esses plus quam femina, quae nunc 
etiam viros transcendis, et quae maledic- 
tionem Evas in benedictionem vertisti 
Mariae." — Epistola Abcslardi Heloissce. 

Page 222. To come back to my text! 

In giving this sermon of Friar Cuthbertas 
a specimen of the Risus Paschales, or 
street-preaching of the monks at Easter, I 
have exaggerated nothing. This very anec- 
dote, offensive as it is, comes from a dis- 
course of Father Barletta, a Dominican 
friar of the fifteenth century, whose fame 
as a popular preacher was so great, that it 
gave rise to the proverb, 

Nescit predicare 
Qui nescit Barlettare. 

" Among the abuses introduced in this 
century," says Tiraboschi, "was that of ex- 
citing from the pulpit the laughter of the 
hearers : as if that were the same thing as 
converting them. We have examples of 
this, not only in Italy, but also in France, 
where the sermons of Menot and Maillard, 
and of others, who would make a better 



NOTES. 



3(^3 



appearance on the stage than in the pulpit, 
are still celebrated for such follies." 

It the reader is curious to see how far the 
freedom of speech was carried in these 
popular sermons, he is referred to Scheible's 
Kloster, Vol. I, where he will find extracts 
from Abraham a Sancta Clara, Sebastian 
Frank, and others ; and in particular an 
anonymous discourse called Der Grduel 
der Verwiistung, The Abomination of 
Desolation, preached at Ottakring, a village 
west of Vienna, November 25, 1782, m 
which the license of language is carried to 
its utmost limit. 

See also Predlcatoriana, ou Revelations 
singulieres et amusantes sur les Predua- 
teurs ; par G. P. Pkilonmeste. (Menin.) 
This work contains extracts from the popu- 
lar sermons of St. Vincent Ferrier, Barlelta, 
Menot, Maillard, Marini, Raulin, Valladier, 
De Besse, Camus, Pere Andre, Bening, and 
the most eloquent of all, Jacques Brydaine. 

My authority for the spiritual interpreta- 
tion of bell-ringing, which follows, is Duran- 
dus. Ration. Divln. Offic, Lib. I, cap. 4. 

Page 225. The Nativity : A Miracle- 
Play. 

A singular chapter in the history of the 
Middle Ages is that which gives account 
of the early Christian Drama, the Myste- 
ries, Moralities, and Miracle-Plays, which 
were at first performed in churches, and 
afterwards in the streets, on fixed or mov- 
able stages. For the most part, the Myste- 
ries were founded on the historic portions 
of the Old and New Testaments, and the 
Miracle-Plays on the lives of Saints ; a dis- 
tinction not always observed, however, for 
in Mr. Wright's " Early Mysteries and other 
Latin Poems of the Twelfth and Thirteenth 
Centuries," the Resurrection of Lazarus is 
called a Miracle, and not a Mystery. The 
Moralities were plays, in which the Virtues 
and Vices were personified. 

The earliest religious play which has 
been preserved is the Chrlsfos Paschon of 
Gregory Nazianzen, written in Greek, in the 
fourth century. Next to this come the re- 
markable Latin plays of Roswitha, the Nun 
of Gandersheim, in the tenth century, which, 
though crude and wanting in artistic con- 
struction, are marked by a good deal of 



dramatic power and interest. A handsome 
edition of these plays, with a French transla- 
tion, has been lately published, entitled Thea- 
tre de RotsvUha, Religieuse allemande du X^ 
Slecle. Par Charles Magnhi. Paris, 1845. 

The most important collections of Eng- 
lish Mysteries and Miracle-Plays are those 
known as the Townley, the Chester, ami 
the Coventry Piays. The first of these col- 
lections has been published by the Surtees 
Society, and the other two by the Shake- 
speare Society. In his Introduction to the 
Coventry Mysteries, the editor, Mr. Halli- 
well, quotes the following passage from 
Dugdale's Antiquities of H 'a7'wickshire : — 

" Before the suppression of the monas- 
teries, this city was very famous for the 
pageants, that were played therein, upon 
Corpus-Christi day; which, occasioning 
very great confluence of people thither 
from far and near, was of no small benefit 
thereto; which pageants being acted with 
mighty state and reverence by the friars of 
this house, had theatres for the severall 
scenes, very large and high, placed upon 
wheels, and drawn to all the eminent parts 
of the city, for the better advantage of spec- 
tators : and contain'd the story of the New 
Testament, composed into old English 
Rithme, as appeareth by an ancient MS. 
intituled Ludus Corporis Christi, or Ludus 
ConventricB. I have been told by some old 
people, who in their younger years were 
eyewitnesses of these pageants so acted, 
that the yearly confluence of people to see 
that shew was extraordinary great, and 
yielded no small advantage to this city." 

The representation of religious plays has 
not yet been wholly discontinued by the 
Roman Church. At Ober-Ammergau, in 
the Tyrol, a grand spectacle of this kind is 
exhibited once in ten years. A very graphic 
description of that which took place in the 
year 1850 is given by Miss Anna Mary 
Howitt, in her " Art-Student in Munich," 
Vol. I, Chap. IV. She says : — 

" We had come expecting to feel our souls 
revolt at so material a representation of 
Christ, as any representation of him we 
naturally imagined must be in a peasants' 
Miracle-Play. Yet so far, strange to con- 
fess, neither horror, disgust, nor contempt 



364 



NOTES. 



was excited in our minds. Such an earnest 
solemnity and simplicity breathed through- 
out the whole of the performance, that to 
me, at least, anything like anger, or a per- 
ception of the ludicrous, would have seemed 
more irreverent on my part than was this 
simple, childlike rendering of the sublime 
Christian tragedy. We felt at times as 
though the figures of Cimabue's, Giotto's, 
and Perugino's pictures had become ani- 
mated, and were moving before us ; there 
was the same simple arrangement and brill- 
liant color of drapery, — the same earnest, 
quiet dignity about the heads, whilst the en- 
tire absence of all theatrical effect wonder- 
fully increased the illusion. There were 
scenes and groups so extraordinarily like 
the early Italian pictures, that you could 
have declared they were the works of Giotto 
and Perugino, and not living men and 
women, had not the figures moved and 
spoken, and the breeze stirred their richly 
colored drapery, and the sun cast long, 
moving shadows behind them on the stage. 
These effects of sunshine and shadow, and 
of drapery fluttered by the wind, were very 
striking and beautiful ; one could imagine 
how the Greeks must have availed them- 
selves of such striking effects in their thea- 
tres open to the sky." 

Mr. Bayard Taylor, in his " Eldorado," 
gives a description of a Mystery he saw 
performed at San Lionel, in Mexico. See 
Vol. II, Chap. XI. 

"Against the wing-wall of the Hacienda 
del Mayo, which occupied one end of the 
plaza, was raised a platform, on which 
stood a table covered with scarlet cloth. A 
rude bower of cane-leaves, on one end of 
the platform, represented the manger of 
Bethlehem ; while a cord, stretched from 
its top across the plaza to a hole in the front 
of the church, bore a large tinsel star, sus- 
pended by a hole in its centre. There was 
quite a crowd in the plaza, and very soon a 
procession appeared, coming up from the 
lower part of the village. The three kings 
took the lead; the Virgin, mounted on an 
ass that gloried in a gilded saddle and rose- 
besprinkled mane and tail, followed them, 
led by the angel ; and several women, with 
curious masks of paper, brought up the 



rear. Two characters of the harlequin sort 
— one with a dog's head on his shoulders, 
and the other a bald-headed friar, with a 
huge hat hanging on his back — played all 
sorts of antics for the diversion of the crowd. 
After making the circuit of the plaza, the 
Virgin was taken to the platform, and 
entered the manger. King Herod took his 
seat at the scarlet table, with an attendant in 
blue coat and red sash, whom 1 took to be 
his Prime Minister. The three kings re- 
mained on their horses in front of the 
church ; but between them and the plat- 
form, under the string on which the star 
was to slide, walked two men in long white 
robes and blue hoods, with parchment 
folios in their hands. These were the Wise 
Men of the East, as one might readily 
know from their solemn air, and the mys- 
terious glances which they cast towards all 
quarters of the heavens. 

" In a little while, a company of women 
on the platform, concealed behind a curtain, 
sang an angelic chorus to the tune of ' O 
pescator dell' onda.' At the proper moment 
the Magi turned towards the platform, fol- 
lowed by the star, to which a string was 
conveniently attached, that it might be slid 
along the line. The three kings followed 
the star till it reached the manger, when 
they dismounted, and inquired for the sov- 
ereign whom it had led them to visit. They 
were invited upon the platform, and intro- 
duced to Herod, as the only king: this did 
not seem to satisfy them, and, after some 
conversation, they retired. By this time the 
star had receded to the other end of the 
line, and commenced moving forward again, 
they following. The angel called them into 
the manger, where, upon their knees, they 
were shown a small wooden box, supposed 
to contain the sacred infant; they then 
retired, and the star brought them back no 
more. After this departure, King Herod 
declared himself greatly confused by what 
he had witnessed, and was very much afraid 
this newly found king would weaken his 
power. Upon consultation with his Prime 
Minister, the Massacre of the Innocents was 
decided upon, as the only means of security. 

" The angel, on hearing this, gave warn- 
ing to the Virgin, who quickly got down 



NOTES. 



365 



from the platform, mounted her bespangled 
donkey, and hurried off. Herod's Prime 
Minister directed all the children to be 
handed up for execution. A boy, in a 
ragged sarape, was caught and thrust for- 
ward ; the Minister tools him by the heels 
in spite of his kicking, and held his head on 
the table. Thai little brother and sister of 
the boy, thinking he was really to be de- 
capitated, yelled at the top of their voices, 
in an agony of terror, which threw the 
crowd into a roar of laughter. King Herod 
brought down his sword with a whack on 
the table, and the Prime Minister, dipping 
his brush into a pot of white paint which 
stood before him, made a flaring cross on 
the boy's face. Several other boys were 
caught and served likewise ; and, finally, 
the two harlequins, whose kicks and strug- 
gles nearly shook down the platform. The 
procession then went off up the hill, fol- 
lowed by the whole population of the 
village. All the evening there were fan- 
dangos in the meson, bonfires and rockets 
on the plaza, ringing of bells, and high mass 
in the church, with the accompaniment of 
two guitars, tinkling to lively polkas." 

In 1852 there was a representation of this 
kind by Germans in Boston : and I have 
now before me the copy of a play-bill, an- 
nouncing the performance, on June 10, 
1852, in Cincinnati, of the " Great Biblico- 
Historical Drama, the Life of Jesus Christ," 
with the characters and the names of the 
performers. 

Page 235. The Scriptorium. 

A most interesting volume might be writ- 
ten on the Calligraphers and Chrysograph- 
ers, the transcribers and illuminators of 
manuscripts in the Middle Ages. These 
men were for the most part monks, who 
labored, sometimes for pleasure and some- 
times for penance, in multiplying copies of 
the classics and the Scriptures. 

" Of all bodily labors, which are proper 
for us," says Cassiodorus, the old Calabrian 
monk, " that of copying books has always 
been more to my taste than any other. The 
more so, as in this exercise the mind is in- 
structed by the reading of the Holy Scrip- 
tures, and it is a kind of homily to the others, 
whom these books may reach. It is preach- 



ing with the hand, by converting the fingers 
into tongues ; it is publishing to men in 
silence the words of salvation ; in fine, it is 
fighting against the demon with pen and 
ink. As many words as a transcriber writes, 
so many wounds the demon receives. In a 
word, a recluse, seated in his chair to copy 
books, travels into different provinces, with- 
out moving from the spot, and the labor of 
his hands is felt even where he is not." 

Nearly every monastery was provided with 
its Scriptorium. Nicolas de Clairvaux, St. 
Bernard's secretary, in one of his letters de- 
scribes his cell, which he calls Scriptoriolum, 
where he copied books. And Mabillon, in 
his Etudes Monastiques, says that in his 
time were still to be seen at Citeaux " many 
of those little cells, where the transcribers 
and bookbinders worked." 

Silvestre's Paleographie Unlverselle con- 
tains a vast number of facsimiles of the 
most beautiful illuminated manuscripts of 
all ages and all countries; and Montfaucon 
in his PalcBographia Grceca gives the names 
of over three hundred calligraphers. He 
also gives an account of the books they 
copied, and the colophons, with which, 
as with a satisfactory flourish of the pen, 
they closed their long-continued labors. 
Many of these are very curious ; expressing 
joy, humility, remorse ; entreating the read- 
er's prayers and pardon for the writer's sins ; 
and sometimes pronouncing a malediction 
on any one who should steal the book. A 
few of these I subjoin : — 

" As pilgrims rejoice, beholding their na- 
tive land, so are transcribers made glad, be- 
holding the end of a book." 

"Sweet is it to write the end of any 
book." 

" Ye who read, pray for me, who have 
written this book, the humble and sinful 
Theodulus." 

"As many therefore as shall read this 
book, pardon me, I beseech you, if aught I 
have erred in accent acute and grave, in 
apostrophe, in breathing soft or aspirate; 
and may God save you all ! Amen." 

" If anything is well, praise the tran- 
scriber; if ill, pardon his unskilfulness." 

" Ye who read, pray for me, the most sin- 
ful of all men, for the Lord's sake." 



NOTES. 



" The hand that has written this book 
shall decay, alas ! and become dust, and go 
down to the grave, the corrupter of all 
bodies. But all ye who are of the portion 
of Christ, pray that I may obtain the pardon 
of my sins. Again and again I beseech 
you with tears, brothers and fathers, accept 
my miserable supplication, O holy choir! 
I am called John, woe is me I I am called 
Hiereus, or Sacerdos, in name only, not in 
unction." 

" Whoever shall carry away this book, 
without permission of the -Pope, may he in- 
cur the malediction of the Holy Trinity, of 
the Holy Mother of God, of Saint John the 
Baptist, of the one hundred and eighteen 
holy Nicene Fathers, and of all the Saints ; 
the fate of Sodom and Gomorrah ; and tiie 
halter of Judas ! Anathema, amen." 

" Keep safe, O Trinity, Father, Son, and 
Holy Ghost, my three fingers, with which I 
have written this book." 

" Mathusalas Machir transcribed this ch- 
vinest book in toil, infirmity, and dangers 
many." 

" Bacchius Barbardorius and Michael 
Sophianus wrote this book in sport and 
laughter, being the guests of their noble and 
common friend Vincentius Pmellus, and 
Petrus Nunnius, a most learned man." 

This last colophon, Montfaucon does not 
suffer to pass without reproof. " Other cal- 
hgraphers," he remarks, " demand only the 
prayers of their readers, and the pardon of 
their sins ; but these glory in their wanton- 
ness." 

Page 240. Drink down to your peg ! 

One of the canons of Archbishop Anselm, 
promulgated at the beginning of the twelfth 
century, ordains " that priests go not to 
drinking-bouts, nor drink to pegs." In the 
times of the hard-drinking Danes, King Ed- 
gar ordained that " pins or nails should be 
fastened into the drinking-cups or horns at 
stateddistances, and whosoever should drink 
beyond those marks at one draught should 
be obnoxious to a severe punishment." 

Sharpe, in his History of the Kings of 
England, says : " Our ancestors were for- 
merly famous for compotation ; their liquor 
was ale, and one method of amusing them- 
selves in this way was with the peg-tankard. 



I had lately one of them in my hand. It 
had on the inside a row of eight pins, one 
above another, from top to bottom. It held 
two quarts, and was a noble piece of plate, 
so that there was a gill of ale, half a pint 
Winchester measure, between each peg. 
The law was, that every person that drank 
was to empty the space between pin and 
pin, so that the pins were so many measures 
to make the company all drink alike, and 
to swallow the same quantity of liquor. 
This was a pretty sure method of making 
all the company drunk, especially if it be 
considered that the rule was, that whoever 
drank short of his pin, or beyond it, was 
obliged to drink again, and even as deep as 
to the next pin." 

Page 240. The convent of St. Gildas de 
Rhuys. 

Abelard, in a letter to his friend Philintus, 
gives a sad picture of this monastery. " I 
live," he says, " in a barbarous country, the 
language of which I do not understand ; I 
have no conversation but with the rudest 
people, my walks are on the inacessible 
shore of a sea, which is perpetually stormy, 
my monks are only known by their dissolute- 
ness, and living without any rule or order, 
could you see the abby, Philintus, you would 
not call it one. the doors and walls are 
without any ornament, except the heads 
of wild boars and hinds feet, which are 
nailed up against them, and the hides of 
frightful animals, the cells are hung with 
the skins of deer, the monks have not so 
much as a bell to wake them, the cocks and 
dogs supply that defect, in short, they pass 
their whole days in hunting; would to 
heaven that were their greatest fault! or 
that their pleasures terminated there ! I 
endeavour in vain to recall them to their 
duty; they all combine against me, and I 
only expose myself to continual vexations 
and dangers. I imagine I see every moment 
a naked sword hang over my head, some- 
times they surround me, and load me with 
infinite abuses; sometimes they abandon 
me, and I am left alone to my own torment- 
ing thoughts. I make it my endeavour to 
merit by my sufferings, and to appease an 
angry God. sometimes I grieve for the loss 
of the house of the Paraclete, and wish to see 



NOTES. 



367 



it again, ah Philintus, does not the love of 
Heloise still burn in my heart ? I have not 
yet triumphed over that unhappy passion, 
in the midst of my retirement I sigh, 1 weep, 
I pine, I speak the dear name Heloise, and 
am pleased to hear the sound." — Letters 
of the Celebrated Abelard and Heloise. 
Translated by Mr. John Hughes. Glasgow, 

1751- 
Page 252. Were it not for my magic 
garters and staff. 

The method of making the Magic Garters 
and the Magic Staff is thus laid down in 
Les Secrets Merveilleux du Pet/t Albert, a 
French translation of Albertt Parvi Lucii 
Libellus de Mlrabilibus Naturce Arcanis : — 
" Gather some of the herb called mother- 
wort, when the sun is entering the first 
degree of the sign of Capricorn ; let it dry a 
little in the shade, and make some garters 
of the skin of a young hare ; that is to say, 
having cut the skin of the hare into strips 
two inches wide, double them, sew the 
before-mentioned herb between, and wear 
them on your legs. No horse can long 
keep up with a man on foot, who is furnished 
with these garters." — p. 128. 

" Gather, on the morrow of All Saints, a 
strong branch of willow, of which you will 
make a staff, fashioned to your liking. 
Hollow it out, by removing the pith from 
within, after having furnished the lower end 
with an iron ferule. Put mto the bottom 
of the staff the two eyes of a young wolf, the 
tongue and heart of a dog, three green 
lizards, and the hearts of three swallows. 
These must all be dried in the sun, between 
two papers, having been first sprinkled with 
finely pulverized saltpetre. Besides all these, 
put into the staff seven leaves of vervain, 
gathered on the eve of St. John the Baptist, 
with a stone of divers colors, which you will 
find in the nest of the lapwing, and stop the 
end of the staff with a pome! of box, or of 
any other material you please, and be as- 
sured that this staff will guarantee you from 
the perils and mishaps which too often befall 
travellers, either from robbers, wild beasts, 
mad dogs, or venomous animals. It will 
also procure you the good will of those with 
whom you lodge." — p. 130. 
Page 255. Saint Elmo's stars. 



So tlie Italian sailors call tlie phosphores- 
cent gleams that sometimes play about the 
masts and rigging of ships. 

Page 256. The School of Salerno. 

For a history of the celebrated schools 
of Salerno and Monte-Cassino, the reader 
is referred to Sir Alexander Croke's Intro- 
duction to the Regimen Sanitatis Salernita- 
mim ; and to Kurt Sprengel's Geschichte 
der Arzneikunde, 1, 463, or Jourdan's French 
translation of it, Histoire de la Medecine, 
n.354. 

The Song of Hiawatha.— This 
Indian Edda — if I may so call it — is 
founded on a tradition prevalent among the 
North American Indians, of a personage 
of miraculous birth, who was sent among 
them to clear their rivers, forests, and fish- 
ing-grounds, and to teach them the arts of 
peace. He was known among different 
tribes by the several names of Michabou, 
Chiabo, Manabozo, Tarenyawagon, and 
Hiawatha. Mr. Schoolcraft gives an ac- 
count of him in his Algic Researches, Vol. 
I, p. 134; and in his Histofy,Co?idition, and 
Prospects of the Indian Tribes of the United 
States, Part III, p. 314, may be found the 
Iroquois form of the tradition, derived from 
the verbal narrations of an Onondaga chief. 

Into this old tradition I have woven other 
curious Indian legends, drawn chiefly from 
the various and valuable writings of Mr. 
Schoolcraft, to whom the literary world is 
greatly indebted for his indefatigable zeal 
in rescuing from oblivion so much of the 
legendary lore of the Indians. 

The scene of the poem is among the 
Ojibways on the southern shore of Lake 
Superior, in the region between the Pictured 
Rocks and the Grand Sable. 

Page 266. In the Vale of Tawasentha. 

This valley, now called Norman's Kill, is 
in Albany County, New York. 

Page 267. On the Mountains of the 
Prairie. 

Mr. Catlin, in his Letters and Notes on 
the Manners, Customs, and Conditio?z of the 
North American Indians, Vol. II, p. 160, 
gives an interesting account of the Cbteau 
des Prairies, and the Red Pipe-stone 
Quarry. He says: — 



368 



NOTES. 



"Here (according to their traditions) 
happened the mysterious birth of the red 
pipe, which has blown its fumes of peace 
and war to the remotest corners of the 
continent ; which has visited every warrior, 
and passed through its reddened stem the 
irrevocable oath of war and desolation. 
And here, also, the peace-breathing calumet 
was born, and fringed with the eagle's quills, 
which has shed its thrilling fumes over the 
land, and soothed the fury of the relentless 
savage. 

"The Great Spirit at an ancient period 
here called the Indian nations together, 
and, standing on the precipice of the red 
pipe-stone rock, broke from its wall a 
piece, and made a huge pipe by turning it 
in his hand, which he smoked over them, 
and to the North, the South, the East, and 
the West, and told them that this stone was 
red,— that it was their flesh, — that they 
must use it for their pipes of peace, — that 
it belonged to them all, and that the war- 
club and scalping-knife must not be raised 
on its ground. At the last whiff of his pipe 
his head went into a great cloud, and the 
whole surface of the rock for several miles 
was melted and glazed; two great ovens 
were opened beneath, and two women 
(guardian spirits of the place) entered them 
in a blaze of fire ; and they are heard there 
yet (Tso-mec-cos-tee and Tso-me-cos-te- 
won-dee), answering to the invocations of 
the high-priests or medicine-men, who con- 
sult them when they are visitors to this 
sacred place." 

Page 269. Hark you, Bear I you are a 
coward. 

This anecdote is from Heckewelder. In 
his account of the Indian Nations, he de- 
scribes an Indian hunter as addressing a 
bear in nearly these words. " I was pres- 
ent," he says, " at the deliveiy of this curious 
invective; when the hunter had despatched 
the bear, I asked him how he thought that 
poor animal could understand what he 
said to it? 'O,' said he in answer, 'the 
bear understood me very well ; did you not 
observe how ashamed he looked while I 
was upbraiding him ? ' " — Transactions of 
the American Philosophical Society, Vol. I, 
p. 240. 



Page 273. Hush! the Naked Bear will 
get thee ! 

Heckewelder, in a letter published in the 
Transactions of the American Philosophical 
Society, Vol. IV, p. 260, speaks of this 
tradition as prevalent among the Mohicans 
and Delawares. 

" Their reports," he says, " run thus : 
that among all animals that had been 
formerly in this country, this was the most 
ferocious ; that it was much larger than the 
largest of the common bears, and remark- 
ably long-bodied ; all over (except a spot of 
hair on its back of a white colour) naked. . . . 

"The history of this animal used to be a 
subject of conversation among the Indians, 
especially when in the woods a hunting. I 
have also heard them say to their children 
when crying : ' Hush ! the naked bear 
will hear you, be upon you, and devour 
you.' " 

Page 278. Where the Falls of Minne- 
haha, etc. 

" The scenery about Fort Snelling is rich 
in beauty. The Falls of St. Anthony are 
familiar to travellers, and to readers of 
Indian sketches. Between the fort and 
these falls are the ' Little Falls,' forty feet in 
height, on a stream that empties into the 
Mississippi. The Indians called them 
Mme-hah-hah, or ' laughing waters,' " — 
Mrs. Eastman's Dacotah, or Legends of the 
Sioux, Introd. p. ii. 

Page 295. Sand Hills of the Nagow 
Wudjoo. 

A description of the Grand Sable, or 
great sand dunes of Lake Superior, is 
given in Foster and Whitney's Report on 
the Geology of the Lake Superior Land 
District, Part II, p. 131. 

" The Grand Sable possesses a scenic in- 
terest little inferior to that of the Pictured 
Rocks. The explorer passes abruptly from 
a coast of consolidated sand to one of loose 
materials; and although in the one case 
the cliffs are less precipitous, yet in the 
other they attain a higher altitude. He sees 
before him a long reach of coast, resembling 
a vast sand-bank, more than three hundred 
and fifty feet in height, without a trace of 
vegetation. Ascending to the top, rounded 
hillocks of blown sand are observed, with 



NOTES. 



369 



occasional clumps of trees, standing out 
like oases in the desert." 

Page 296. Oiia7vay ! Awake ^ beloved ! 

The original of this song may be found 
in Littell's Living Age, Vol. XXV, p. 

45- 
Page 297. Or the Red Swan floating, 
flymg. 

The fanciful tradition of the Red Swan 
may be found in Schoolcraft's Algic Re- 
searches, Vol. II, p. 9. Three brothers 
were hunting on a wager to see who would 
bring home the first game. 

" They were to shoot no other animal," 
so the legend says, " but such as each was in 
the habit of killing. They set out different 
ways ; Odjibwa, the youngest, had not gone 
far before he saw a bear, an animal he was 
not to kill, by the agreement. He followed 
him close, and drove an arrow through him, 
which brought him to the ground. Although 
contrary to the bet, he immediately com- 
menced skinning him, when suddenly some- 
thing red tinged all the air around him. He 
rubbed his eyes, thinking he was perhaps 
deceived ; but without effect, for the red 
hue continued. At length he heard a strange 
noise at a distance. It first appeared like a 
human voice, but after following the sound 
for some distance, he reached the shores of 
a lake, and soon saw the object he was look- 
ing for. At a distance out in the lake sat a 
most beautiful Red Swan, whose plumage 
glittered in the sun, and who would now 
and then make the same noise he had 
heard. He was within long bow-shot, and, 
pulling the arrow from the bowstring up to 
his ear, took deliberate aim and shot. The 
arrow took no effect ; and he shot and shot 
again till his quiver was empty. Still the 
swan remained, moving round and round, 
stretching its long neck and dipping its bill 
into the water, as if heedless of the arrows 
shot at it. Odjibwa ran home, and got all 
his own and his brother's arrows, and shot 
them all away. He then stood and gazed at 
the beautiful bird. While standing, he re- 
membered his brother's saying that in their 
deceased father's medicine-sack were three 
magic arrows. Off he started, his anxiety 
to kill the swan overcoming all scruples. 
At any other time, he would have deemed it 



sacrilege to open his father's medicine-sack ; 
but now he hastily seized the three arrows 
and ran back, leaving the other contents of 
the sack scattered over the lodge. The swan 
was still there. He shot the first arrow with 
great precision, and came very near to it. 
The second came still closer; as he took 
the last arrow, he felt his arm firmer, and, 
drawing it up with vigor, saw it pass through 
the neck of the swan a little above the breast. 
Still it did not prevent the bird from flying 
off, which it did, however, at first slowly, flap- 
ping its wings and rising gradually into the 
air, and then flying off toward the sinking 
of the sun." — pp. 10-12. 

Page 301. When I think of my beloved. 

The original of this song may be found 
in Oneota, p. 15. 

Page 301. Sing the mysteries of Mon- 
dainin. 

The Indians hold the maize, or Indian 
corn, in great veneration. "Tiiey esteem 
it so important and divine a gram," says 
Schoolcraft, " that their story-tellers invented 
various tales, in which this idea is symbol- 
ized under the form of a special gift from 
the Great Spirit. The Odjibwa-Algon quins, 
who call it Mon-da-min, that is, the Spirit's 
grain or berry, have a pretty story of this 
kind, in which the stalk in full tassel is rep- 
resented as descending from the sky, under 
the guise of a handsome youth, in answer to 
the prayers of a young man at his fast of 
virility, or coming to manhood. 

" It is well known that corn-planting, and 
corn-gathering, at least among all the still 
ttncolonized tribes, are left entirely to the fe- 
males and children and a few superannuated 
old men. It is not generally known, perhaps, 
that this labor is not compulsory, and that 
it is assumed by the females as a just equiv- 
alent, in their view, for the onerous and 
continuous labor of the other sex, in pro- 
viding meats, and skins for clothing, by the 
chase, and in defending their villages against 
their enemies, and keeping intruders off 
their territories. A good Indian housewife 
deems this a part of her prerogative, and 
prides herself to have a store of corn to 
exercise her hospitality, or duly honor her 
husband's hospitality, in the entertainment 
of the lodge guests." — Oneota, p. 82. 



370 



NOTES. 



Page 302. Thus the fields shall be more 
fruitful. 

"A singular proof of this belief, in both 
sexes, of the mysterious influence of the 
steps of a woman on the vegetable and in- 
sect creation, is lound in an ancient custom, 
which was related to me, respecting corn- 
planting. It was the practice of the hun- 
ter's wife, when the field of corn had been 
planted, to clioose the first dark or over- 
clouded evening to perform a secret circuit, 
sans habilement, around the field. For this 
puipose she slipped out of the lodge in the 
evening, unobserved, to some obscure nook, 
where she completely disrobed. Then, tak- 
ing her matchecota, or principal garment, in 
one hand, she dragged it around the field. 
This was thought to insure a prolific crop, 
and to prevent the assaults of insects and 
worms upon the grain. It was supposed 
they could not creep over the charmed 
line." — Oneota, p. 83. 

Page 303. With his prisoner-string he 
bound him. 

" These cords," says Mr. Tanner, " are 
made of the bark of the elm-tree, by boil- 
ing and then immersing it in cold water, 
. . . Tlie leader cf a war party commonly 
carries several fastened about his waist, and 
if, in the course of the fight, any one of his 
young men takes a prisoner, it is his duty 
to bring him immediately to the chief, to be 
tied, and the latter is responsible for his 
safe-keeping." — Narrative of Captivity and 
Adventures, p. 412. 

Page 303. Wagemin, thethief of corn-fields , 
Paimo said, the skulking robber. 

" If one of the young female buskers finds 
a red ear of corn, it is typical of a brave ad- 
mirer, and is regarded as a fitting present 
to some young warrior. But if the ear be 
crooked, and tapering to a point, no matter 
what color, the whole circle is set m a roar, 
and wa-ge-mtn is the word shouted aloud. 
It is the symbol of a thief in the corn-field. 
It is considered as the image of an old man 
stooping as he enters the lot. Had the 
chisel of Praxiteles been employed to pro- 
duce this image, it could not more vividly 
bring to the minds of the merry group the 
idea of a pilferer of their favorite mon- 
damin. . . . 



" The literal meaning of the term is, a mass, 
or crooked ear of gram ; but the ear of corn so 
called is a conventional type of a little old 
man pilfering ears of corn m a corn-field. It 
is in this manner that a single word or term, 
in these curious languages, becomes the fruit- 
ful parent of many ideas. And we can thus 
perceive why it is that the word wagemin is 
alone competent to excite merriment in the 
husking circle. 

" This term is taken as the basis of the 
cereal chorus, or corn song, as sung by the 
Nortiiern Algonquin tribes. It is coupled 
with the phrase Paimosaid, — a permutative 
form of the Indian substantive, made from 
the verb pim-o-sa, to walk. Its literal mean- 
ing is, he who walks, or the walker ; but the 
ideas conveyed by it are, he who walks by 
night to pilfer corn. It offers, therefore, a 
kind of parallelism in expression to the pre- 
ceding term." — Oneota, p. 254. 

Page 309. Pugasaing, with thirteen 
pieces. 

This Game of the Bowl is the principal 
game of hazard among the Northern tribes 
of Indians. Mr. Schoolcraft gives a par- 
ticular account of it in Oneota, p. 85. " This 
game," he says, " is very fascinating to some 
portions of the Indians. They stake at it 
their ornaments, weapons, clothing, canoes, 
horses, everything in fact they possess; and 
have been known, it is said, to set up their 
wives and children, and even to forfeit their 
own liberty. Of such desperate stakes I 
have seen no examples, nor do I think the 
game itself in common use. It is rather 
confined to certain persons, who hold the 
relative rank of gamblers in Indian society, 
— men who are not noted as hunters or 
warriors, or steady providers for their fami- 
lies. Among these are persons who bear 
the term oi Jenadizze-wug, that is, wanderers 
about the country, braggadocios, or fops. \ 
can hardly be classed with the popular 
games of amusement, by which skill anr 
dexterity are acquired. I have generally 
found the chiefs and graver men of the 
tribes, who encouraged the young men to 
play ball, and are sure to be present at the 
customary sports, to witness, and sanction, 
and applaud them, speak lightly and dispar 
agingly of this game of hazard. Yet it can 



NOTES. 



371 



not be denied that some of the chiefs, 
distinguished in war and the chase, at the 
West, can be referred to as lending their 
example to its fascinating power." 

See also his History, Condition, and 
P) aspects of the /ndia?t Tribes, Part 1 1, p. 72. 

Page 314. To the Pictui ed Rocks of sand- 
stone. 

The reader will find a long description of 
the Pictured Rocks in Foster and Wliitney's 
Report on the Geology of the Lake Superior 
Land District, Part II, p. 124. From this I 
make the foUowmg extract : — 

"The Pictured Rocks maybe described, 
in general terms, as a series of sandstone 
bluffs extending along the shore of Lake 
Superior for about five miles, and rising, m 
most places, vertically from the water, with- 
out any beach at the base, to a height 
varying from fifty to nearly two hundred feet. 
Were they simply a line of cliffs, they might 
not, so far as relates to height or extent, be 
worthy of a rank among great natural curi- 
osities, although such an assemblage of rocky 
strata, washed by the waves of the great 
lake, would not, under any circumstances, 
be destitute of grandeur. To the voyager, 
coasting along their base in his frail canoe, 
they would, at all times, be an object of 
dread; the recoil of the surf, the rock-bound 
coast, affording, for miles, no place of 
refuge, — the lowering sky, the rising wind, 
— all these would excite his apprehension, 
and induce him to ply a vigorous oar until 
the dreaded wall was passed. But in 
the Pictured Rocks there are two features 
which communicate to the scenery a won- 



derful and almost unique character. These 
are, first, the curious manner in which the 
cliffs have been excavated, and worn away 
by the action of the lake, which, for cen- 
turies, has dashed an ocean-like surf against 
their base ; and, second, the equally curious 
manner in which large portions ol the sur- 
face have been colored by bands of brilliant 
hues. 

" It is from the latter circumstance that 
the name, by which these cliffs are known 
to the American traveller, is derived; while 
that applied to them by the French voy- 
ageurs ( ' Les Portails ' ) is derived from the 
former, and by far the most striking pecu- 
liarity. 

" The term Pictured Rocks has been in use 
for a great length of time ; but when it was 
first applied, we have been unable to dis- 
cover. It would seem that the first travellers 
were more impressed with the novel and 
striking distribution of colors on the surface, 
than with the astonishing variety of form 
into which the cliffs themselves have been 
worn. . . . 

" Our voyageuts had many legends to 
relate of the pranks of the Alenni-bojou in 
these caverns, and, m answer to our in- 
quiries, seemed disposed to fabricate stories, 
M'ithout end, of the achievements of this 
Indian deity." 

Page 324. Toward the sun his hands were 
lifted. 

In this manner, and with such salutations, 
was Father Marquette received by the 
Illinois. See his Voyages et Decouvertes, 
Section V. 



QTi^.- 



^ 



1 



^H 



